


Broken and Remade

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, My first fic, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Survivor Guilt, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock, Weddings, with all its warts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John Watson is a hollow shell. He begins a new life in Canada, and a new life with Mary Morstan, while Sherlock works in secret to dismantle Moriarty's network. Danger is never far away, however -- John and Sherlock will have to face the greatest heartache either of them has ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning out my Sherlock fic file and found this -- the first I ever wrote, shortly after S2 aired. I never did finish it (so I know there are some scenes missing) but I think there are still some nice moments here. I have decided to publish it as is. I think the plot is still trackable in spite of the fact that I didn't get around to writing some bits. There is some massive angst and the requisite happy ending (in keeping with my HED). I know the Canada connection is a conceit, but what the hell. And if you've read any of my other stuff, you'll probably see the bits I cannibalised for other fics. I won't be doing any major work on this, so please ignore any errors or research lapses. It has not been through a beta or a Britpicker. Each chapter title is a song title (I will note the artist or composer in each chapter note), so you'll also have to forgive my terrible taste in music.
> 
> Rating is for smut--but you gotta wait for it :D
> 
> All that being said, while I am finishing up my WIP and working on the historical omegaverse AU in progress, I hope you enjoy this. Love you guys!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a good soldier.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

There was nothing to drown out the sound of traffic in the street below, or of Mrs. Hudson saying goodbye to her sister at the front door. There was a humming noise coming from the refrigerator behind him, and an echo of water dripping from a tap somewhere in the flat.

The rest was silence.

John sat slumped in the overstuffed, red chair by the fireplace and stared at the empty dark leather chair across from him.

He'd done this once before, months ago. He'd stopped in to pack up some more clothes and change before collecting Mrs. H to go to the cemetery. He hadn't stayed long and he hadn't been back since.

There would be no more late night violin concertos. No one arguing with the television or stomping up the stairs carrying a bloody harpoon. No bizarre smells or explosions in the kitchen. Worst of all, no deep, measured voice muttering, shouting, laughing (sometimes whining) the most extraordinary things John had ever heard.

The mad hum of life that had once permeated this flat had ceased. Everything John had loved, everything that had made the untidy (and sometimes toxic, depending on the experiments) collection of rooms his home, was gone.

The lounge looked strangely empty without all the clutter. The wall had been repaired, too, as well as the burn mark on the floor. The place looked almost normal. Funny that Mrs. Hudson hadn't found a new tenant.

John sighed heavily and straightened. There wasn't any point in delaying the inevitable. It was time to move on.

He stood and collected the small cardboard box of items Mrs. Hudson had saved for him. He'd intended to return and help her deal with the equipment and books. And body parts. Somehow, though, the weeks had passed and he hadn't been able to bring himself to come home. No, to come _here_ , he corrected himself quickly.

Instead, he had continued to bury himself in work, taking as many shifts as he could come by at St. Thomas Hospital A & E. He hadn't gone back to the surgery, of course. It had been some time since he and Sarah had parted on relatively civil terms personally, but she still reminded him of the Chinese mob and yellow graffiti and dark London tunnels.

What he'd most needed was a change of scene and situation. Fortunately, his sister had turned up.

He'd been sat in a hallway at Bart's. That day. The old hospital no longer had an active emergency department, but when he'd refused to be taken to the nearest A & E, the medical staff on hand had checked his head injury, wrapped him in a blanket and sat him down to wait. He hadn't really been sure what he was waiting for. He'd known no one was going to come out and tell him that it had all been a terrible mistake; that it had been touch-and-go there for a minute, but everything was going to be all right. He'd known it, but he wouldn't leave. He'd wanted to speak to Molly, but no one seemed to know where she was.

"Johnny," Harry'd said softly. Nothing else; just his name. It was what she'd called him when they were kids. It was what she'd called him at Selly Oak, when he'd first arrived home from Afghanistan. It was an uneasy, unspoken truce; a silent agreement that, in such a time, all else would be laid aside.

He'd turned a bruised face toward her and they'd regarded each other. Harry had nodded toward the door behind her. "They sent a car for me. The DI told me...he said you had a concussion and needed someone to keep an eye on you."

John had peered behind her and just been able to catch a glimpse of Greg Lestrade disappearing around a corner. He hadn't been able to smile at that then. The stinging betrayal of their arrest the night before had been a bit too fresh, all things considered.

"You'll come to mine, yeah?" Harry'd moved in and picked up his black jacket.

John had nodded, numb. He'd not cried yet. And there was the shock and the head trauma. He hadn't questioned or raised any argument. They'd all known he wasn't going back to 221B that night.

Harry had taken him home without another word. For the better part of two months, she'd let him do, well, whatever he needed to do.

She'd held his hand and let him stare into space. She'd rubbed his back while he lay curled on her couch in the foetal position, sobbing. She'd put full plates in front of him day after day and cleared away the uneaten food without a complaint. She'd let him stay indoors with the curtains drawn all day every day for two weeks. She'd fetched his things from 221B (although he still couldn’t find his dog tags). She’d hidden the papers from him for as long as she could and avoided turning on the telly whenever possible. She was the one who'd directed him to the position at St. Thomas. She'd been truly kind and incredibly supportive during the worst time of his life to date (and that included being shot during a war). He knew it and he appreciated it and he'd stayed with her for as long as he could.

But after two months, her drinking had become an issue again. He suspected that she had been laying off for the first few weeks — making an effort. She wasn't completely insensitive. She'd even gone with him to the cemetery once. He'd been staring at the headstone: trying to be stoic, trying to pretend that he was getting better, that he was beginning to get past it. (Processing, his therapist called it. Absolute and utter bollocks, he called it.) Then he'd glanced up at Harry and caught her looking at him. She'd given him a sad smile, but in her eyes was something else. Not grief or pity. Understanding?

Whatever it was, it hadn't lasted. Harry's addiction eventually trumped her concern for her grieving brother, as it had so many other things.

Before, he and Clara had poured out the bottles. Before, he had given his sister a prescription for Baclofen and begged her to fill it. Before, he'd helped Clara try to convince her to enter rehab. This time, he'd done nothing.

It could have been argued that he was walking away because she was belligerent before and he had no reason to suppose it would be different this time. Or that he'd known he couldn't help her if she didn't want help. The reality was, he simply couldn't stay. Looking after an addict again so soon would remind him of Christmas and a sock index and sighing smartphones.

And he'd be damned if he'd stand by and watch someone else he loved kill themselves right in front of him.

He'd had things to finish in London, though, and needed somewhere to stop for a while. So he'd paid Greg a visit at the Yard and learned that he was in the process of getting divorced. It was the P.E. teacher after all.

He and Greg had come to an understanding by then. John had seen his dedication to the investigation into "Rich Brook" and recognized the inspector's remorse and sadness. It was never spoken of, but John understood.

And so it was that two months, eight days and six hours after _that day_ (not that he was keeping track) John had found himself hauling his duffle bag to Clapham to sleep on a lumpy sofa bed in Greg Lestrade's new bachelor pad.

That was almost five months ago.

"John, dear." He heard Mrs. H's voice right behind him. He'd been so lost in his memories that he hadn't heard her coming up the stairs.

"How is your sister?" he asked.

He couldn't see the fragile fingers raised to pursed lips behind him, but he heard the deep breath before she spoke. "Just fine, dear. Thanks for asking."

Her voice sounded brittle to John's ears, but he supposed that was to be expected, what with him coming here and bringing it all back. He closed his eyes for a moment before stretching his neck and turning to face her. He turned his mouth up into his bedside-manner smile and gave her his full attention.

"Oh, John," her voice was uneven. "You look —" She hesitated, reaching a hand toward him. "But how are you, dear? Really?"

"Oh, just fine, you know, Mrs. H," John said in his best cheery voice, staying out of touching distance. It was the same voice he used for work — and for Greg, and for Molly (when he saw her), and for Mike. They needed him to be okay, and so he was. Mrs. Hudson's eyes crinkled, and John suspected he could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. It was time to go.

"Well, that's good, isn't it," she said softly. She didn't sound convinced, but John chose to ignore that. He forced a smile again. "So you have your box?"

"Yup." John hoisted it to eye level. "Right here."

"I hope what's in there is all right. I didn't really know what to save for you. I was just guessing. And after I thought I was going to have to do all the clearing out myself, I ended up not having very much time…well, you know Mycroft."

John hadn't thought, but it made sense. Once Mycroft had dealt with all the details of the death and burial, he would have made certain his people came to collect the remnants of his brother's life as well.

"They stormed in, four of them, and packed it all away," she continued. "Out to a black lorry parked in the street. And that was that. I —"

"I should be going," John said abruptly. Mrs. Hudson started, but then smiled weakly and nodded.

"Of course, dear. Thank you for coming."

John nodded and made his way to the stairs.

"Do come by again, dear," she said to his back. "If you can."

John nodded again without turning, taking the steps more quickly than he needed. Out on the pavement, he took three deep breaths.

"Right, then." He glanced down at the box in his hands, ignoring the way his stomach clenched at the thought of what might be inside. He willed it away.

He took another deep breath and then it was done. He steeled his features and squared his shoulders. The emptiness that had so frightened Mrs. Hudson returned to his eyes.

John was a good soldier. And so he marched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Black Heart - Hey Rosetta!


	2. Brothers in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade knows his friend is lost.

"He's been and gone already?" Greg Lestrade walked briskly across the street, dodging the CID on his way back to the crime scene. It was a hell of a mess and it was likely to take all night.

The voice on the other end of his mobile sighed. "He came in while I was saying goodbye to my sister. I went up as soon as I could, but he just...left. Took the box with barely a word. Oh, dear, he's so thin. And his eyes…has he been like this for very long?"

Greg sighed heavily, running a hand over his furrowed brow. "Yeah." He glanced up and nodded at Sally Donovan as she waved to him. "He's, well, he's still sort of missing in action, isn't he? I mean he sits at night and talks to me. He watches the telly. Types away on that damn laptop until all hours. He even comes out to the pub once in a while. But it's like it isn't really him. Like he's just going through the motions or something." He blew out a breath. "Honestly, I thought he'd start to get better after a while, but he's getting worse."

"Is he depressed? Would he...?" Mrs. Hudson couldn't finish that thought.

"Nah. For some reason, I don't think he would. And besides, I have his gun." Greg reached the front steps of the Georgian townhouse and paused. "It's not depression. I almost wish it was. It's like he's not really there anymore." He took the steps two at a time and grabbed the evidence bag Donovan was holding out toward him. He checked it quickly and nodded, passing it on to Anderson who was waiting silently beside him. "I dunno, but it's sad and scary and it can't keep going on like this. I thought once Sherlock's name was cleared he'd start to cheer up a bit. I hoped if I pushed him to go and see the old flat, to pick up those things, maybe it might snap him out of this."

There was a sniffle on the other end of the phone.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson," he said kindly. "Look, thanks for letting me know. I'll make sure someone is keeping tabs on him." Greg ended the call and stood staring at the phone.

"Is he still, you know?" Donovan asked. She looked almost concerned. In fact, she'd been polite, almost gentle, with John since it happened. Greg wasn't sure why. He still hadn't entirely forgiven her for what she had pushed him into doing to Sherlock in the end; he doubted John had either.

"Yeah," Greg looked up and nodded again, acknowledging the thought. "Look, tell them I'll come through in a minute. I have another call I have to make." Donovan nodded and disappeared through the door.

It was strange: when John had seen Donovan at Bart's, that day, Greg would have testified (given the tick in the doctor's jaw) that John had been stifling an impulse to strangle her with his bare hands. Over the last few months, though, John had grown more resigned and withdrawn. He barely acknowledged Donovan or Anderson or any of the rest of them anymore. They'd all had the decency to act chagrined, and following the vindication there had been reprimands all around, but John seemed not to care. At all.

When Greg thought about how they had played into the hands of that evil son of a bitch, Moriarty, it made him physically ill. He still lay awake some nights wondering how he'd ever allowed himself to be roped into it. How could he have doubted that mad, brilliant bastard, even for a minute? He _knew_ Sherlock. He'd seen what he could do. No one could fake that. More to the point, since he'd met John, Greg knew Sherlock would never have wanted to.

True, the north on his moral compass had never pointed in exactly the same direction as everyone else's. He was completely gormless when it came to social skills and he was a right cold prick when he wanted to be. But after John, well, something had changed. It was almost as if Sherlock had wanted to become a better person. He would never have risked disappointing John, not like that.

Greg still recalled what he'd told John shortly after they'd met, about Sherlock being a great man. Well, he'd been right, though it hadn't been any kind of luck that had made the difference. Sherlock Holmes had been on his way to becoming a good man, too, and all because of John Watson.

One of the great tragedies of Sherlock’s death was that he hadn't lived to be appreciated. Apparently he’d told John that he expected everyone to believe the lie; that it was easier for them if he was a fraud, if he was an ordinary man like any other. Some did believe it, but lots didn't.

In spite of the press, a groundswell of support for the detective had grown. It hadn't taken long for the graffiti to start appearing. Sherlock's homeless network had been busy writing "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" and "Moriarty was real" on walls all over the city. Posters and handbills had turned up across the country. Soon, the papers were picking it up; even in their own possible error there was a good story. Within weeks, the investigation to clear Sherlock's name had been on the news every night. The internet was positively alive with the campaign.

Every person who had ever been helped as a result of Sherlock's unique abilities (especially all the folks whose cases had nothing to do with Moriarty, as far as anyone could tell) had something to say about the rumours that he was a fraud. Most of the testimonials began with something like "I thought he was quite rude, but..." or "Honestly seemed like a complete nutter, but..." Still, there was no getting around it: people believed in Sherlock Holmes.

After that horrible day at Bart's, Greg had dedicated himself to proving Sherlock's innocence. His superiors knew that his interest in the investigation was not unbiased and he'd taken some heat from his CS (still nursing a broken nose at that point), but he'd been careful. He knew he'd become single-minded, though — probably a bit distracted. Shortly thereafter, he'd returned home to find a note of dismissal from his wife and a suitcase at the door. It had been coming for months, obviously, but he supposed his preoccupation had given her the excuse she'd needed to make a clean break.

Then John had stopped by the Yard for a chat (fortunately, his brief arrest had never turned into formal charges). Something in the look on the doctor's face had scared Greg to death.

Oh, he'd seen PTSD and shock. He'd seen family members numbed by the violent death of a loved one. He'd seen some pretty fucking horrible things in the course of his career, but nothing had ever driven a deep, cold, dread into his guts like the hollow shell of a good man that stood before him that day. John was no longer grieving; he was vacant.

It had taken less than an hour to decide that he'd take a leave of absence to focus on Sherlock and spend his days following leads. After John had started sleeping on the sofa at his new place, they'd pretty much starting spending nights on the case as well.

John had been like a machine: all day at the hospital, and then up most of the night going through documents or tracking down tips on the internet. He'd abandoned his blog, but that didn't stop him from writing emails to MPs, weighing in on discussion boards and chatting with their supporters.

With considerable help from Mycroft's contacts and from Molly Hooper (who had not only known "Rich Brook" as "Jim from IT" but had been witness to Sherlock's scientific method and many of his investigations) they had eventually poked enough holes in Kitty Reilly's story to prove that her source had fabricated his evidence.

The fundamental details about Sherlock's life had been mostly accurate. _Mostly_.

It turned out that during his single term absence from Cambridge Sherlock had been recuperating from glandular fever and meningitis, NOT been in rehab as "Rich Brook" had asserted. Sherlock's Cambridge file stated only “Illness” as the reason for the absence (apparently Sherlock had not been pleased about contracting the “kissing disease”). But going through Kitty Reilly's files, Greg had been unconvinced by the records that seemed to be from a posh addiction clinic. He knew most of Sherlock's history and arrest record (or what little of it remained, thanks to Mycroft). He was pretty sure Sherlock hadn't started using until much later.

On further investigation, it turned out a portion of the posh clinic including the wing Sherlock was meant to have stayed in had been closed for repairs due to water damage during the period of Sherlock's supposed intake. All the records of Sherlock's real illness and his treatment at his family's home had been produced, along with testimony from the private nurse who'd cared for the young genius. She remembered Sherlock very well, as the strain of caring for a madman whose "transport" was keeping him out of the lab almost caused her to rethink the profession altogether.

No, Greg knew a setup when he saw it. He might not be as brilliant as either of the Holmes boys, but he hadn't made DI for nothing. _Whoever_ had been doing the talking, they'd provided Moriarty with a lot of truth about Sherlock along with just a few splendidly plausible (almost irrefutable) fictions. Just enough to bring the whole thing crashing down.

Greg understood, of course, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything. Mycroft Holmes was an incredibly powerful man. And from what John had told him (over two or three — or six — cans each one night at the flat), he was probably as brilliantly barmy as his brother.

After nearly four months, they had been able to untangle the knots of the lies. Mycroft had long since pointed out the cruel joke inherent in Moriarty's alias. In the end, the children’s' DVDs were proven to have been made recently and no one could trace the production company or any broadcaster that might have commissioned or aired them. Most of the references on the "Rich Brook" CV disintegrated under close scrutiny. Contacts had been revealed and networks began to be uncovered. Greg suspected that some of this was due to the elder Holmes' particular brand of persuasion, but he knew much better than to ask.

And since Reilly wouldn't have been able to produce Rich Brook even if she had been inclined to sell out her source to save her own arse (Greg was positive Moriarty was dead, but there’d been nothing on the roof to prove it and they’d never found a body), that was (literally) all she wrote. There was one more attempt on a morning chat show to justify her hasty acceptance of the "facts" she'd been presented with and had so swiftly published, but popular opinion had swung too far to the other side. She'd been fired in disgrace and disappeared from the public eye.

Greg had been so grateful, and so very tired. He'd hoped the dead-eyed zombie living in his flat might be revived by the result, but apart from briefly joining him and Molly (nice girl, Molly) and a few of the others at the pub for a kind of celebration/memorial, John had barely altered his routines.

Today he'd gone back to the home he'd shared with Sherlock and according to Mrs. Hudson he'd barely reacted. Not good.

Greg dialled the number and waited. He needed help, though he hated having to ask. Especially as it was...

"Mycroft Holmes."

"This is Lestrade."

"Ah, yes, Detective Inspector. I expect to hear some good news."

"Wish I had some."

"He took the box?"

"He took it and…nothing."

"I see." There was a long pause. "Tell me, inspector, has he mentioned anything to you about his travel plans?"

"What travel plans?" Greg was stunned. "The man never goes anywhere but work. He doesn't even go to the cemetery anymore. Where the hell would he be travelling to?"

There was another long pause. "I have learned that Dr. Watson has accepted a position as an instructor at a NATO combat medical training facility."

"What? Where?"

"Abroad."

"No way. Not a chance. John would never leave Britain."

"Wouldn't he?" Mycroft replied. "Exactly what is it that he has to stay for? My brother is gone, but his reputation has been restored. That part of John's life is over. He has formed no new romantic attachments. He rarely sees his sister. His parents are dead. His current practice is locum work only." There was another pause. "He was a soldier, inspector. His injury makes further active service impossible, but it is perfectly reasonable that he would want to return to the sphere he knows."

Greg digested this. John was running away. He turned away from the door of the townhouse to stare out into the street. "Do you know when he's leaving?"

"The position commences in less than a week. He is scheduled to depart this coming Friday."

"Two days? But he hasn't said..."

"I think, inspector, we can all agree at this point that John has not been saying much of anything to any of us for a very long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Brothers in Arms - Dire Straits


	3. Bad Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly knows things the great Sherlock Holmes does not.

Molly checked carefully to make sure the blinds were drawn and only one lamp was lit before sending the text.

> _Darling, I miss you._

The reply came quickly.

> _I miss you more._

Sherlock had been back to England only rarely in the past year, but when he did return he always checked in. Sometimes he even stopped by, like tonight. She was always so happy to see him, to know he was still okay, but it was easier when he was able to come to her. She had gotten very good at making her way around his homeless network, but she always felt safer at home or at Bart's.

The past twelve months had been so strange. Looking back, it was more like a dream than a year in the life of Molly Hooper. She had never been anywhere or done anything before, but at the age of 28 she had:

  * Helped a man fake his own death.
  * Testified before a Commons commission regarding her dealings with a master criminal and her work in the lab with the not-dead man.
  * Participated in a massive grass-roots campaign to restore his good name.
  * Lied to everyone about his being alive.
  * Watched his best friend start to disappear.



The last two bothered her immensely, but her loyalty to Sherlock was absolute. She trusted him as she had never trusted anyone before. She had to believe that if he thought this was the only way to eliminate the threat from Moriarty's network, then it was. He had told her only bits and pieces of what he had learned and what he planned to do. Probably thought she wouldn't understand, but she did. She understood more than he did, really.

Molly had fallen for Sherlock the very first day he'd turned up at her lab at Bart's six years ago. She'd been in the middle of analysing the stomach contents of a 38-year-old chemist from Weybridge, who had died under mysterious circumstances, when the door had flung open and a tall, thin man with dark curls and a dark coat had swept into the room.

"I'm sorry, but you can't be in here," she'd said meekly.

"Nonsense," he'd replied blandly. "Clearly I am in the room; therefore I _can_ be in the room. Now, whether or not I _should_ be very much depends on your answer to my question."

"Which question?"

Sherlock had crossed the room in swift strides to stand across the counter from her, leaning in so close that their noses were almost touching over the microscope.

"Are you Molly Hooper?"

She'd flushed as she'd gazed into the big, pale eyes, barely noticing the goose bumps that had formed on her arms at the sound of that voice. She'd only been able to manage a weak nod.

"Excellent." He'd straightened and looked around the room quickly before crossing to deposit his hastily doffed coat on a nearby hook. He removed something from the pocket before turning back to her. "The hospital administrator — Granger, is it? — has granted permission for me to make use of the equipment in this lab to do some research on behalf of the Metropolitan Police."

"D-don't they have their own lab?"

"Of course they do. However, technically I don't work for them, so technically I would not be permitted to use said lab. Besides, too many people. All idiots."

"I don't understand. If you don't work for them, why are you doing research for them?"

"Yes, that is a good question," Sherlock had settled himself in front of a microscope at the other end of the counter. He'd placed three small evidence bags on the counter and begun to prepare slides. "One I ask myself frequently."

Molly had watched those long, fine fingers working pipettes and beakers and had felt her heart dissolving in her chest. He was so unusual, but so...beautiful. He'd turned then and stared at her, his now-gloved hand frozen in the air.

"You do post mortems," he said suddenly.

"I — yes — that is — "

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed and his body had turned slightly towards her. These days, Molly knew this was Sherlock for "You are no longer boring," but at the time she had misread it as the interest of a man in a woman. Silly, really, to think that Sherlock could ever have been interested in her like that. Not when...well, she'd had the chance to watch Sherlock in a lot of different and strange situations over the years. She knew now when he really was interested in someone. She'd finally seen it.

"And you have access to cadavers, yes?"

Molly had blushed right to the roots of her hair as she'd nodded, wondering if he could tell how the curve of his lovely mouth made her palms sweat.

"Excellent," Sherlock had replied, an almost childlike expression of glee lighting his face. "Once I'm finished here, you can escort me to the morgue and provide me with an appropriate specimen. Male, mid-to-late forties." He paused. "As fresh as possible."

"A body?" she'd squeaked. "Why? What are you going to do to — with it?"

Sherlock had merely smiled down into his samples. "I think we will begin with the leather chaps."

Molly giggled, thinking back to what she must have looked like at that moment. She remembered being so terribly confused and not just a little bit horrified at what it sounded like this strange creature was proposing.

"Who _are_ you?" she'd asked with trepidation. He'd looked up again and fixed her with that unearthly gaze. "No, sorry. I mean, what is your name? You know, so I can call and just check to make sure this is all okay..."

"Sherlock Holmes," he'd responded mildly. "S-h-e-r-l-o-c..."

And somehow, oddly enough, two hours later Molly had found herself standing over a slab beside this Mr. Holmes, looking at the body of a 48-year-old bus driver, now wearing leather chaps.

These had arrived at the lab in a plain plastic bag only minutes before, delivered by a scruffy-looking teenager with several tattoos. She hadn't heard Sherlock call anyone, but she'd noticed that he had interrupted his experiments to send a text. He'd received the package with undisguised delight and hurried her from the lab. Once in the morgue he had waited, twitching, while she went through the log to find a body that would meet his criteria. Mr. Wiggins had no next of kin and was due to be cremated once the students were done with him. Best of all, he'd only just arrived. Fresh as they came, in her line of work.

Sherlock had made swift work of applying the chaps. Molly had watched, fascinated by his intensity. And his dispassion. He'd cinched the straps as tight as he could and then stood back, crossing his arms in satisfaction.

"Now what?" Molly had asked then.

"Now we wait," he'd said, one eyebrow raised as if to indicate he could not understand how she had not worked that out for herself.

She was used to that look now. She didn't take offence. It was just Sherlock's way; he didn't know any better. Or he hadn't until John.

There was a light rap on her door, Molly jumped up from her position on the chair by the window and ran to open it. It was always a risk, Sherlock coming to her, but she knew he enjoyed that.

"Hello, darling!" a slightly-higher-than-normal pitched voice with a very thick Welsh accent said. Two long arms encircled her and swept her back into the flat, closing the door behind them in one swift movement. Molly spun in his arms as Sherlock continued past her in one graceful turn from the door. He went directly to the windows, noting that the blackout blinds he'd asked her to buy were in place. She steadied herself, now used to being embraced and released so quickly as part of the pretence of a tearful reunion.

Sherlock had created the fiction for her, and it had been relatively simple to maintain. Molly let it be known that she had a new boyfriend — a Welsh petro-chemical engineer who worked for long periods of time at remote locations in the North Sea. She told everyone that she had met "Owyn" through an online dating service. Photos had been produced (she didn't think Sherlock suited ginger hair, but the dark contacts and the beard were all right) and long phone conversations simulated.

All in all, she hadn't really thought anyone would notice if she did or did not have a boyfriend at all (though Detective Inspector Lestrade had seemed quite interested for some reason) but Sherlock had insisted it was a necessary precaution. It provided an excuse for a man to appear at her door from time to time. And anyone monitoring Molly's mobile phone would not be surprised to see texts from a man who was not often around (the code Sherlock employed with her was relatively simplistic, but unlikely to appear suspect given the context of a couple in a new relationship).

Again, it was still something of a risk, but Molly knew she had never been as important to Sherlock (at least publicly) as John or the inspector (she still struggled to call him Greg as he had asked) or Mrs. Hudson. Even though she had been part of the investigation to clear Sherlock's name, very few people knew of her participation. She wasn't interesting enough to garner much notice, she supposed. Therefore, she had decided that it was very unlikely Moriarty's people were bothering with her or her new boyfriend.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was always thorough and she never questioned his methods.

"Molly," he said shortly, dropping the beige anorak he'd been wearing on her chair. He had straightened now that they were safely inside. "Owyn" was a couple of inches shorter than Sherlock, so he hunched himself up a bit when he came to see her. And he'd added the usual layers or padding or something (she had never actually asked what he used) to appear heavier than he was. He didn't bother with wigs or fake beards (too easy for something to fall off or come askew) so she knew that he would have just died his beard and his perfectly straightened hair to a dark ginger for the occasion of his visit. He wore jeans and a plaid flannel button-down shirt in shades of brown, with a dark brown crew-neck t-shirt beneath it. Instead of his own elegant Italian shoes, he wore hiking boots. The heavy, horn-rimmed glasses always looked odd to Molly, but Sherlock had assured her it was just another way of lessening the impact of his rather distinctive eyes.

He sat on her sofa and waited. Molly dutifully crossed the floor and sat beside him. She wasn't sure why he needed her for this, but then if Mycroft Holmes were her brother, she didn't suppose she would rely on him for personal details about her friends either.

"I trust you are well," he said. That never ceased to amaze her. She couldn't remember him ever enquiring after anyone's health, at least not before John.

"Fine, thanks," she responded with a smile. "You?"

"As well as can be expected." He waited, fixing her with his customary stare. Molly flinched.

“Yes, of course, sorry...well, uhm, Mrs. Hudson is very well. I popped in to visit her last week and we had tea." Molly glanced up and Sherlock nodded. "Her sister came to stay with her after she was released from hospital so her recovery from the surgery was much easier than expected." (Mrs. Hudson had finally had that hip replaced.) "She still keeps the antlers from that Christmas on her mantle, but she didn't seem as sad when she talked about you this time."

"The flat is still empty, though?"

Molly nodded. "Oh, I found out about that, actually. She told me that your brother's been paying the rent, so no need to bother about a tenant."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. He shook his head. "Continue."

"Inspector Les — Greg — is working on a high profile case involving the son of an ambassador or something. He's still living at the flat in Clapham. Oh, and his divorce became final a month ago. His wife is already engaged. We all went out and had a little sort of celebration a couple of weeks ago. I think he feels okay about it." Sherlock nodded, clearly impatient. "And John..."

"John...?" Sherlock was terse. This was always Molly's least favourite part of his visits.

"He's gone, Sherlock. I mean from England."

Sherlock froze. His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. "Gone? Gone where?"

Molly took a deep breath. "Greg found out a couple of days ago, from Mycroft, actually. John took a teaching position at a NATO base somewhere. Something to do with training medics. He didn't say a word to anyone about it."

"Where?" Sherlock was standing now and reaching for his jacket. " ** _Where_**?" Molly flinched again.

"Sherlock you shouldn't leave yet. You said it always had to look like a real visit." He was always so careful not to do anything that might jeopardize their charade.

He loomed over her, his face a mask of something that Molly didn't think she would ever see on those finely sculpted features. Sherlock was absolutely terrified.

"I don't — I don't know. Greg didn't know. Mycroft wouldn't tell him exactly where. Maybe he doesn't know —" She broke off at the look of complete incredulity on Sherlock's face. "Well, maybe he did, but he definitely didn't say. And John didn't leave any contacts. Sherlock what about your cover?"

Molly was following him to the door, hoping he wasn't about to do anything rash. He pulled the anorak on roughly and threw the door open, turning to face her. With his back facing the corridor, he reached up and placed a surprisingly tender hand on her cheek.

"I'm sorry, too, darling," he said in a broken voice, loudly enough to be overheard. "But I understand. I know my job keeps me from home too often. If you've found someone else, someone who is here when you need them, I won't stand in your way."

Molly was stunned. She swallowed hard, realizing exactly what this meant. She had been right.

Here was one thing she understood that the great Sherlock Holmes did not. At least, not yet. She tried to force a brave smile, though there were tears pooling in her eyes. Poor Sherlock.

He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He lingered there, holding her fast. Molly tried to pull back.

"Wait, I..."

But he pulled her close, sighing very softly and whispering into her ear, in his own lovely voice, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

And he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Bad Timing - Blue Rodeo


	4. Voici des roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is a better brother than Sherlock gives him credit for.

Mycroft accepted the cup and saucer from his personal assistant.

"Thank you, Henry. That's everything for this evening?"

"That's everything, sir."

"Fine, fine." The stocky young black man nodded and removed the tray with him as he left the room. He had recently joined Mycroft's staff from the University of Edinburgh and had proven to be quite indispensable. Though Mycroft had initially balked at the idea of employing an assistant at home as well as at the office, the time and travel it saved him had proven the value of the notion.

Henry Moore had read classics and political science. He was also a rugby player and a boxing champion. He was efficient, intelligent, scrupulously discreet and physically intimidating.

And he made an excellent cup of tea.

There was a strange scuffling noise in the corridor leading to the foyer. Mycroft raised his head and listened for a minute. There was a stifled shout and then...a loud thud and the clatter of shattering china as someone hit the floor. He rolled his eyes and took another sip of his tea.

The door to the library opened and closed again.

"I do hope you haven't caused Henry any permanent damage," Mycroft said.

"Nothing he won't recover from by morning," came the rumbling reply. Sherlock appeared beside his brother's chair next to the fire. He had a cut on his cheekbone that would definitely leave a bruise and his lip was bleeding. At least Henry'd got a couple in.

"Sit down if you're going to stay." Mycroft indicated the seat opposite him and looked up at his younger brother.

Sherlock's hair was damp and smelled of hair dye. He'd recently shaved, and while he was now wearing the dishevelled ensemble he reserved for his time with his homeless network, he was still wearing..."Brown socks. And how is Miss Hooper?"

"Where is he?"

Mycroft set the cup in its saucer and set them both on the table beside him. He steepled his fingers and stared into the flames. He could feel Sherlock's anxiety, but took his time responding.

"What will you do if I tell you?"

"I just want to be sure he's safe," Sherlock snapped. "I won't do anything unless I deem it necessary. You know that."

"Yes, I do." Mycroft replied. "I think it best if we allow Dr. Watson to get on with his life for the time being, don't you?"

"Get on with —" Sherlock sputtered, his arms thrown wide. "Mycroft, John is in danger! I have not been able to find the last sniper! How could you let him leave the country?"

"He is perfectly safe."

"No." Sherlock shook his head vehemently, pacing now. "No. No, if he's out of the country, he's too far away for you to protect him. He's too far away..."

"For you to see him every time you come home?"

Sherlock stopped short.

"Of course I know. Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft picked up his cup again and took a long sip. "Sit down, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitated only briefly before flopping into the chair across from his brother. His pupils were dilated and his agitation was palpable. A danger night, perhaps.

"He doesn't know."

"Obviously. But that doesn't prevent you from risking everything you've accomplished over the last six months by following him at close range and sitting outside Greg Lestrade's flat all night whenever you come back."

"I don't —"

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft sighed heavily, relinquishing his now-empty teacup. "I know you worry about him. And I appreciate that you are still concerned about the last assassin. It is unfortunate that you have been unable to neutralize this threat as quickly as you were able to track and...dispense...with the men who were contracted for the inspector and Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock ground his teeth. "I am so close, Mycroft. I can feel it. I feel like he’s right in front of me and there is nothing but a thin veil separating us."

"Nothing in Paris?"

"Trail went cold. I had an unpleasant meeting with some counterfeiters, though. Had to disappear for a few weeks."

"A favour from an old friend?"

"You have nothing new?" Sherlock deflected.

“We have reason to believe the Black Lotus have resumed operations in Britain. We have no details on their new contact here, as yet.”

“It won’t be the man I’m looking for. He’s a foot soldier — someone to do Moriarty’s dirty work, not a successor. Moriarty didn’t share power; there wouldn’t be anyone in his network capable of taking his place.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied, not looking entirely convinced. “I will keep you informed. Is there anything else?”

Sherlock dug into his coat pocket and produced a memory stick. “I reviewed everything you sent me. The interviews and surveillance footage in particular,” he said. “Of the 115 British civil servants included in your package, I have isolated twenty-two names as those most likely to have had contact with Moriarty or any of the four operations already under investigation. Twelve additional names are highlighted — those who most certainly did play a part in one of Moriarty’s little projects. My notes provide the necessary details.”

Mycroft took the memory stick with undisguised pleasure.

“I do have more important things to get on with, Mycroft. I don’t know why you waste my time with this,” Sherlock complained. “You could do it yourself, or get your minions to do it for you.”

“I don’t have time, “ Mycroft replied. “And minions take months. You, brother dear, are ever so much faster.” Mycroft offered something of a smile, hoping Sherlock would respond to flattery.

Sherlock merely nodded.

Mycroft waited before trying another approach. "You knew this one would not be easy, Sherlock. Moriarty enjoyed making his games very personal. He would have chosen his best man, his most trusted associate, his most deadly assassin to kill your best friend. Nothing left to chance."

Sherlock laid his head back against the chair, eyes closed. Mycroft studied the deep lines that had begun to appear on his brother's much thinner face since the night at Bart's. The strain was beginning to show. Mycroft felt his own frown lines deepening.

"You did what Moriarty wanted. You died."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his voice snide. "And then I spent the next six months systematically hunting down and killing two of the three people he'd hired to shoot my friends if I didn't. You don't think the last man might have noticed?"

"Which is why we have taken precautions. John is perfectly safe where he is. You must trust me."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I would have told you sooner that he was being detained, if you ever answered my calls. And I did what you asked of me, against my better judgment. Enough rope to hang himself — that’s what you wanted. It was a tremendously dangerous game you were playing, Sherlock. It shouldn’t have come as such a big surprise that Moriarty raised the stakes higher than even you could have anticipated."

“You went to John behind my back.”

“You knew perfectly well I had spoken to John. I thought it only fair that he have some idea what was coming.”

“He hated you. He and Lestrade figured it out eventually, but John really did hate you for a while.”

“And I know how that amuses you,” Mycroft said evenly. “I wonder how he will feel when he learns —”

“I don’t want your pity.”

Mycroft paused. “You have it, nonetheless.”

"Is that why you’re keeping 221B available?"

Mycroft cocked his head. "No." He looked down and regarded his fingernails. "No, that is a gift. Once I'd had your things removed and taken where you asked, I had a discussion with Mrs. Hudson. We agreed that while he is not yet ready to consider it, John might wish to return someday." He paused, fixing his brother with a pointed Holmesian stare. "Naturally, she does not know I intend for you to return with him. If that is what you desire, of course."

Sherlock's sharp cheekbones acquired a rosy hue. He swallowed hard.

"No need to thank me," Mycroft continued.

"You are an insufferable bastard."

"Sentiment, Sherlock?"

There was a long silence. Sherlock turned his attention to the fire, though he probably wasn't really seeing anything at all.

"It doesn't matter."

"Pardon?" Mycroft's eyebrows arched.

"You heard me. It doesn't matter," Sherlock repeated.

"What doesn't?"

"Feeling too much, being weak."

Mycroft considered this. "Caring is not an advantage," he repeated.

"It is no longer a choice," Sherlock bit out. "All that matters is John."

Mycroft hesitated. "This has never been your long suit, Sherlock."

Sherlock's glare was cold.

"Very well." Mycroft inclined his head in acceptance.

"You will continue to ensure his safety?"

"Of course."

"How?"

"My sources keep a very watchful eye and they have provided a measure of dedicated personal protection. Very few people are admitted to his current location."

"An armed forces base?" Sherlock scoffed. "Moriarty had a contract killer sitting outside Lestrade's office at the Yard. What makes you think they can't get to John?”

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned. "You cannot go to him."

"You are screening everyone who has access to him?"

"On the base and off, of course. I have been given an unprecedented level of cooperation on that front."

"So it isn't our base?"

"No, there is another government involved." Mycroft sighed heavily. "I'm sure you are close to deducing which one, so let me save you the effort: John in is Canada."

"Canada?" Sherlock shot out of the chair, almost giving in to laughter. "He went to Canada in _January_?"

"An unusual choice, to be sure. However, it has been my experience that they are a very warm people." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. "Sherlock, think about what you have left to do. You have torn the threads in one corner of Moriarty's web, between the assassins and the Rich Brook cover up. If you stop now, it will all be for nothing."

Sherlock resumed pacing. Mycroft watched him calmly.

"You're certain he will be safe there."

"I give you my word," Mycroft said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Sherlock turned and fixed his brother with an assessing stare. He turned again and paced twice more, then stopped. He returned to his chair and sat, his eyes downcast.

"I need a cigare —" Sherlock glanced up at his brother, whose hand was already extended toward him. "Ah. Thank you."

"Now, I am going to check on Henry and make sure he hasn't _fallen out a window_." Mycroft stood and straightened his waistcoat before striding toward the library door. "When I get back, we'll have a drink and you will eat something. And then you will try to get some rest."

Sherlock snorted. "Of course I will."

"Yes, Sherlock, you will," Mycroft assured him without turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Voici des roses - from La Damnation de Faust by Berlioz


	5. Coldest Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter training is hard, but John's toughest assignment may involve an email.

John shivered, swearing under his breath as he hunkered down into the winter survival gear he'd been issued on arrival. He was covered from head to toe, in more layers of high-tech fabrics than he had ever heard of, and still he couldn't feel his fingers.

"Something wrong, sir?"

"It's fucking cold!"

"Yeah," twenty-two-old Corporal Cardinal chuckled. "Sorry about that, sir. You should have asked to start in June."

John turned to share a smile with the tall, heavy-set First Nations kid from Saskatchewan. The young Canadian had been assigned to him when he'd arrived and John had come to appreciate his efficiency and attention to detail. He was always around when John needed him, and even occasionally when John didn't know he did. "And you grew up in this?"

The corporal shrugged. "You get used to it."

John shook his head, unable to imagine how you could get used to day after day of 28 degrees below zero Celcius, and a wind chill that made the effective temperature something like -40. "I have icicles in my eyelashes, and there are unspeakable frozen things hanging from my nose every time I leave a building."

"Snotsicles!" Corporal Cardinal hooted. "Don't worry. You get used to those, too." He peered at John for a moment, looking concerned. "Are you wearing your toque, sir?"

"My what, sorry?"

"Your toque. The, uh, knitted cap, wool hat, thing..." Cardinal struggled to find more than one word to describe the garment, finally pointing to his own head.

"Ah!" John nodded, finally understanding. "No, I forgot it this morning. Regretting that now, actually."

"You never want to do that, sir," Cardinal advised gravely. "Layers are important out here." He reached into his pack and pulled out another toque, emblazoned with his own infantry regiment — the Princess Pat’s. "I brought a spare, just in case."

"Much appreciated." John pulled his hood back and slipped the toque down over his close-cropped hair, instantly gratified by the warmth in his scalp. "Thank you, corporal."

"No problem, sir," the kid chuckled again. "That one has a balaclava built in. You know, in case you forgot that, too."

John chuckled, enjoying the casual camaraderie that would have been veering towards insubordination three years ago. There was something very pleasant about not being official military personal. Technically he was still Captain John Watson, but officially he was a military consultant and quite happy to be plain old Dr. Watson, teacher and mentor.

He had made the decision to leave England in a hurry, he knew that. He'd heard about the opportunity through an old medical corps buddy: some grand new experiment to try training NATO-country medics together to create a more unified approach to field treatment during joint missions. Training would take place in a hospital and under simulated combat conditions, in order to improve their performance under fire. The hospital would be staffed with field surgical and specialist personnel and would be used as a half-way point, to stabilize a selection of the most seriously injured of any returning soldiers from all participating nations before sending them on to longer-term care at home.

The Canadians had proposed the new scheme, so they had offered to host. After all, they could provide cold weather training AND simulate desert conditions from one season to the next. The facility was set up at CFB Wainwright in Alberta.

John had jumped at the chance to apply and, in spite of his injury — or perhaps because of it, he wasn't quite sure — he'd been accepted shortly after the interview. Even his therapist, Ella, had been enthusiastic, shaking his hand and offering a lot of advice about "clean slates."

He'd felt something like relief when he'd received the letter. There was nothing for him in London now.

Harry would miss him, in her way, but she would be satisfied knowing that he wasn't being shot at…at least, not for real. He hadn't said anything to Mrs. H; he didn't want to worry her. And he hadn't said anything to Greg until the day before his flight (though in truth, his friend had not looked at all surprised). He just didn't want an argument. Everything he could think of to say sounded inadequate and he really didn't have any more long goodbyes left in him. Greg had been a good friend, a real mate, but he would always remind John of Dewar's Hollow and tainted sugar and glowing rabbits.

He'd asked Greg to let Molly know. John couldn't go back to Bart's, but he had a funny feeling that the good inspector would be happy to have an excuse to pop in and see her. That left Mike Stamford, whom he had met for coffee the day he was to leave. His old mate had been sad to see him go, but wished him well.

With very little ado, then, he'd got on a plane headed for the wilds of Canada, where he could be guaranteed not to see that name spray-painted on the walls. Or to overhear his friends calling each other about him every time he left a room. And where he could be pretty damn certain that CCTV cameras would not be trained on him every bloody place he went. At the very least, he wanted to make Mycroft work a little bit harder for it, (the bastard).

No, he needed to be away. Away from the obligation to pretend to feel when he didn't.

So here he was, almost two months later, huddled behind a barricade in sub-Arctic conditions with twenty kids from five countries who were — for the first time —  about to attempt to treat "wounded" soldiers while under "attack". Here no one worried if his smile was a fraud or his mannerisms less animated. Soldiers weren't going to comment if he sat alone, staring out the window into the dark every Friday night. Or if he sat alone working on lesson plans or charts for hours at a time. Everyone here was damaged to some degree; he was nothing special.

Cardinal had been his right hand during the preparations for the simulation. John and the five other instructors had worked with the American, Belgian, Danish, Canadian and British COs to pull it all together. They hoped more countries would participate once the program proved successful. Today's exercise would be crucial.

"In two, sir," came a female voice from down the line. John nodded solemnly, and waited for the shelling to start.

He leaned forward to address his team. "Remember, right: triage, treat, transport." Twenty eager faces nodded. "Let's go."

______

Several hours later, John sat with his feet on top of a space heater at his desk in the instructors’ office feeling warmer and well-satisfied.

His students had performed extremely well, quickly assessing and prioritizing the "injuries" presented by volunteers in the mock engagement. The smoke had been thick (as had their own breath in the bitter cold) and the noise deafening, but overall, John was pleased. Twenty young medics from different cultures had worked together under fire and done some damn fine doctoring.

He had thought the IED injuries might throw them (casualties from an explosion tended to present to triage in inverse priority order) but they'd adapted quickly and started dealing with the most seriously injured as they'd arrived.

There was a knock at the door and John looked up expectantly. "Come in."

The door opened and Cardinal appeared. "Sorry to bother you, sir."

"That's all right, corporal," John said. "How can I help?"

"Colonel Franklin wanted to see you, sir."

"Any idea what it's about?" John stood and looked about for his boots and his parka.

"Not really, sir," Cardinal replied. "All he said was that it had something to do with a patient, and I was to escort you to his office immediately."

John shrugged the heavy coat on and shook his head. "You know, you really don't have to escort me everywhere."

Cardinal grinned. "Actually, sir, I do. Orders."

John pulled the door open, knowing Cardinal would be right beside him. They crossed the compound quickly, John hustling to keep up with the corporal's long strides. It was a bit like walking with —

"Corporal," John said, quickly sidetracking the path his thoughts were taking. "Why don't any of the other instructors have a personal escort?"

"I couldn't say, sir," Cardinal replied blandly.

"They've all got PAs, but none quite as attentive as you are."

"I wouldn't know about that, sir," the kid replied. "I only do what I'm told: eyes on you at all times."

John started to feel a familiar creeping sensation on the back of his neck. He couldn't, could he? Could that insufferable bastard still be interfering in his life, even here? Why? There was nothing to connect them now. Why would Mycroft Holmes care what happened to him?

John's pace slowed a little. He regarded the corporal's back with something like suspicion. Did Cardinal know why he was being asked to act as a shadow? John shook his head. Ridiculous even to contemplate. Cardinal was following orders; it wasn't his job to know who gave them or why.

John sighed. He had to stop being paranoid. There was probably a valid reason for all of it. Could even be his former PTSD diagnosis. Maybe they were concerned about episodes, in spite of the fact that he’d passed the psych evaluation with flying colours. He was the only one of the instructors to have been wounded in combat.

They reached the front doors of HQ and made their way through to the commander's office. The young female sergeant at the desk outside nodded in recognition.

"Dr. Watson, if you would like to go right in. Colonel Franklin is waiting for you." John turned and nodded to Cardinal, who was already standing at ease near the wall.

He rapped sharply on the door once and was rewarded with a brisk, "Come!"

He pushed the door open and strode through, closing it behind him. He found his body assuming the position before he could stop himself.

Colonel Franklin looked up and gave him a wry smile. "At ease, Dr. Watson. Old habits are hard to break, eh?"

"Yes, sir." John smiled.

"Doctor, I have a little PR issue that I am hoping you might be able to help me out with."

"Sir?"

"Cousin of one of our former patients. Canadian. She emailed asking to speak with the doctor who treated him."

"I see. What was his name?"

"Morstan, Gavin."

"Morstan," John mulled the name over. "Actually, I do remember him. Spinal cord injury; C2 quadriplegia. We were hoping once he was stabilized…"

"He didn't make it. Passed away two weeks ago." Franklin paused. "There isn't any family, apparently, other than the cousin. I think she needs some closure. She said Morstan mentioned you several times."

"Me?" John was stunned. "But I only saw him in the hospital during rounds. I think I might have sat with him one night, for a while. Still, I wasn't his physician of record."

"Well, apparently he trusted you," Franklin sighed. "Look, I'm hoping all she needs is a few words of reassurance. It's just…morale, you know? We don't want to abandon the families when the kids leave here."

"No, no. Of course," John agreed, remembering his own stunning isolation, what with Harry. "What's her name?"

"Let's see," Franklin flipped his laptop open. "Mary, Mary Morstan." He looked up at John. "So I can forward this to you. You don't mind?"

"No," John said honestly. "I'm happy to do what I can to help."

Franklin smiled. "Probably why the kid imprinted on you while he was here. You're an asset to this project, Dr. Watson."

John nodded, a little embarrassed, and stood to leave. He saluted without thinking and turned to leave.

He was quiet on the walk back to the hospital, but it didn't seem to bother Cardinal. He deposited John at the door to the instructor's office with a smile and disappeared. John knew he'd only gone as far as his own desk around the corner.

He hung his heavy winter coat on the rack near the door and flopped into his chair. He flipped his laptop open and scrolled through his emails absent-mindedly. Mary Morstan. Nice name. Scottish ancestry?

John hesitated over an email from Clara. He opened it cautiously, almost afraid at the news it might contain, but it looked fairly upbeat. Harry had decided to give sobriety another go. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he hoped this time it would stick. He knew Clara had never been able to give up on his sister, in spite of everything. He hoped her continued faith and hope would be rewarded someday.

There was a message from Greg. He'd finally worked up the courage to ask Molly out. Well, he was glad for them, really. They both deserved to be happy.

John flicked back to his inbox and spied the message from Colonel Franklin. He opened it and scanned the forwarded message.

> _Dear Colonel Franklin,_

> _I apologize for taking up your time. I got this email address from family support services._

> _I'll come straight to the point: my cousin, Gavin, was a patient at the training hospital in Wainwright. His injuries were very severe and he wasn't expected to survive the trip back to Canada. However, he made it home and even made it back to me. It was starting to look like there was a chance he might recover, but he developed pneumonia. With his other injuries, he just couldn't fight it._

> _Gav was able to communicate with me a little. The hospital had a computer with a mouth stick. I am so grateful that I had that chance, and the chance to hold his hand when he died and to say goodbye. I just wanted to tell Gavin's doctor that. He mentioned an English John several times; I'm hoping you will know which doctor he meant._

> _I realize this is a lot to ask, but Gavin was my only family. I'd like to do this for him._

>   
>  _Thank you so much,_   
>  _Mary Morstan_   
> 

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He opened a new message and began to type:

> _Dear Mary..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Coldest Days - Rural Alberta Advantage


	6. Words We Never Use

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to face his past before he can pursue a future with Mary.

John's rounds with his trainees began at 0800, but he was running late. He pulled his boots on over the socks he'd slept in (briefly) and tugged clean scrubs on over his head. He pulled his white coat on, incredibly grateful spring had finally arrived (much later than he was used to, but still May had turned out to be a lovely month) and he no longer needed the requisite parka. He swung the door open and slammed it behind him. Cardinal stood waiting outside.

"Sorry to wake you, sir," he said solemnly.

"No, no. I'm glad you did. I'd have missed rounds altogether." John pointed in the direction of the mess. "Do you mind if we just —"

Cardinal grinned, pulling a travel mug out from behind his back and handing it over.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "You never cease to amaze me, corporal." He took the mug, delighted to find that it was full. Thank god for coffee, and for Corporal Cardinal.

"You're not one for sleeping in, sir, if you don't mind my saying."

"I, ah, didn't sleep much. I was chatting, with a friend."

"Skype?"

"Mhmm." John took a sip of coffee.

"I talk to my mom twice a week. She wants to see me; make sure I'm eating okay." John hazarded a sideways glance at his PA as they reached the hospital unit's main doors: 190 centimetres at least and he had to be over 100 kilos. And John knew, having witnessed the kid in a boxing match the week before, almost none of it was fat.

"I know, I know” Cardinal moaned. “But I'm her baby. She worries."

John smiled as they strolled through the hospital to the active ward. The trainees were waiting. Not like medical students, though. No, his medics stood waiting patiently — at ease, but in orderly lines and not displaying any sign that they had noticed his tardiness.

"Morning," he said brightly. Cardinal appeared beside him with his charts and took his coffee. John started walking to the end of the ward. The students followed without hesitation.

"Søndergaard?"

"Yes, sir," the tall, incredibly blonde Dane answered smartly. John stopped by the bed at the far end of the ward and waited for the students to huddle up.

"This is Sergeant Oakes. Chest wound just in from Iraq," he indicated the soldier in the bed, still in a fitful sleep. "The wound was sterilized and packed in the field. He was treated at a surgical unit within forty minutes of his injury; shrapnel was successfully removed. Complications set in within 24 hours. Tell me what you see..."

More than an hour passed as they made the rounds of the room, finally coming to the last bed. John stopped by the left side the wounded American Marine who watched him a bit apprehensively.

“Morning,” John said amiably. The boy stared at him. “How are you feeling, Lance Corporal Ramirez?”

“Fine, sir,” the young marine answered stiffly.

John nodded, reading over the chart. “No need to worry,” he offered, finally turning a smile on Ramirez. “We’re just going to talk about you for a bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

John realized the boy wasn’t going to relax, so addressed his medics. “This is going to be a little different. Who can tell me why Lance Corporal Ramirez should have received a course of anti-inflammatories and should be provided with specialized physiotherapy?”

“For shrapnel wounds to his back?”

“And shoulder,” John replied. “That’s right. Anyone?”

They all stared blankly at him. John sighed. “He suffers from psoriatic arthritis. It appears that his condition is under control, but as he may already have some joint damage it would have been prudent to prescribe NSAIDs to prevent any joint inflammation and pain. And he’ll need to ensure that the injury doesn’t cause a flare-up of the arthritis during his recovery.”

“But why isn’t it…”

“In the chart?” John looked back at the patient.

Ramirez flushed. “They’d have booted me. The arthritis only started a year ago. I’ve been managing fine without anyone finding out.”

John glanced around at his students, now all regarding him with a mixture of awe and suspicion. "Something wrong?"

"Sir, that isn't in the patient history." This came from Corporal Wachowksi, a petite blonde American her fellow trainees referred to affectionately as Short Round.

John sighed. "Look, the history’s important, but your patients aren't always going to know what's relevant. People forget things. And, yeah, sometimes there are things they just don't want to tell you. In the field you aren't going to have that kind of information at hand. You have to try to see beyond the obvious. It could save a life or improve the chances of recovery. Look at this one thumbnail. Dead giveaway," John said, reaching for the wounded marine's hand.

"But it’s so minor. How could you possibly have known?" Short Round piped up again. 

"I didn't know. I noticed…"

John felt his chest constrict as the words left him. His knuckles turned white on the charts in his hand and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Sir?" Cardinal stepped in close. "Are you all right? You look kind of pale."

John nodded quickly, sucking air in through his mouth. He had to get out; had to get back to his rack. "You all have Wound Management with Dr. Gunderson in twenty minutes. Dismissed."

John dropped the paperwork on the admin desk as he passed without slowing his pace. Cardinal was right on his heels. Thank god he knew enough not to speak.

John made straight for the barracks and down the hall into his room. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Cardinal loitering nearby, but he ignored him. He slammed the door behind him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck — what was that? John sat on the edge of his bed and tried to control his breathing. He was close to hyperventilating now. Panic attack. But why?

It wasn't as though he never thought about that part of his life. He would never forget it. He just didn't dwell on it. Or talk about it. With anyone.

Even Mary.

He swung his legs up and lay down on his back, dropping a heavy arm onto his brow. Why was this coming back on him now? He'd been doing great for a few months. It had been almost a year, and he finally felt like he was moving forward instead of staring into the same dark abyss.

Maybe that was the problem. He'd started to move on.

It had started so simply: just a couple of emails back and forth with Mary about her cousin. John had been happy to let her tell him about Gavin and to tell her about the soldier's time at the training hospital. As the weeks passed, John began to realize that they talked about Gavin less and less. He wasn't sure when it had changed, but neither of them had seemed to be in a hurry to end it.

Then Mary had sent an invitation to video chat.

The first time was a bit awkward. After Mary'd got through thanking him, again, they'd both laughed nervously and admitted that they weren't sure why they were doing this. But then they'd started talking. She'd cried a little, but it hadn't made him uncomfortable. Instead, he'd found he was quite pleased that she trusted him that much.

Mary told him about her students. She was a teacher in an inner city school. She taught art to at-risk kids. She told him about the projects she chose for them and why, and about how creativity opened them up to talking about things in their lives that nothing else had ever done.

She told him about Alberta and about Edmonton, where she lived. And she explained some of the more obscure Canadianisms he'd heard since his arrival. He'd met Canucks in Afghanistan, but there were still plenty of things he didn't know.

John thought she was the most interesting woman he had ever met in his life. He'd sat like a knob for the better part of an hour, just listening to her talk.

"John, I'm monopolizing this conversation. I want to know about you…" she would begin, and John would head her off with another question. Her voice was so pleasant to listen to. Not high-pitched or breathy, but rich and warm and sexy. And she was so certain of who she was. John found himself captivated.

And she was beautiful. She had long auburn hair that hung over her shoulder in a cascade (he'd had to look up an appropriate word for hair so completely smooth and straight). There was a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were the most beautiful dark hazel colour he'd ever seen and her lips — well, she could give Angelina a run for her money. He knew she could see him, but that didn't stop him from staring at her.

The second time, they'd managed to talk until midnight. John had talked about the war and his mates, and about where he grew up and his time at uni and about his sister and Clara. He'd told her pretty much everything. Pretty much.

Months later, they were talking two or three times a week. Sometimes, like last night, they simply lost track of time and talked until dawn. It was so easy. Then again, neither of them were kids.

Mary was 32. She'd been married once, when she was 24. It had lasted only 18 months. Her commitment to her kids meant that she was often at the school at odd hours. The men she'd dated had mentioned it once or twice. John gave her the sketchy details of his own checkered love life, very carefully leaving out _why_ it was that most of the women he'd dated after the war had broken up with him.

He just hadn't been ready to tell her about Sherlock. Now, though, it would seem his subconscious was reminding him of exactly how big an impact the man had made on him. He couldn't put it off any longer. He was headed to Edmonton to spend the weekend with her.

It was time.

John swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed and stared at his foot locker. He stood and walked over to it and knelt down, flipping the latch and lifting the lid. He carefully removed the cardboard box he had hauled with him all the way from Mrs. Hudson's. There wasn't any reason he couldn't have left it in storage at Harry's, along with what little else he owned. Instead, he had carried it with him on the plane and tucked it safely into his foot locker when he'd arrived. He hadn't looked inside until now.

John sat back on the bed and placed the box beside him, lifting the crossed flaps. He took a deep breath. And then he laughed — a good, hard, cleansing laughter that came from his toes. The skull. The goddamn skull, sitting right at the top of the box staring up at him. Sherlock would have loved that.

John felt a twisting sensation near his heart.

He pulled the skull out and looked below to find the Union Jack pillow. He smiled a little, lifting it out and setting it atop his own pillow on the bed. He'd fired that pillow at Sherlock's head on more than one occasion.

He reached for the last item. It was Sherlock's navy dressing gown, carefully folded at the bottom of the box. He pulled it into his lap and ran his hands over the silk, remembering the way it had fluttered around the tall, dark madman as he'd paced in front of the sofa. And the way Sherlock would wrap it around his lean body as he sat in his chair before searching the hallways of the 'mind palace' only he could see. Or the way he would pull the robe on over his damp body after a shower and stroll through the flat with the fabric clinging to every inch of him, the neckline gaping open to reveal a broad triangle of pale skin, the memory of which alone still had the power to make John's mouth go dry.

God, how he missed him.

He could not resist the urge to hold it to his face. He inhaled deeply, hoping...oh, yes, there he was: tobacco, his weird organic shampoo, rosin and just a tiny trace of formaldehyde. And the spicy something that John had never been able to quite put his finger on.

Why had it taken him so long to see what everyone else seemed to have known from the beginning?

He'd liked Sherlock right away, in spite of (or more likely because of) his idiosyncrasies. Yes, Sherlock had been able to make him angrier than anyone else he'd ever known at times, but he'd made John laugh more often and feel alive more often than anyone else ever had, too. The more time John had spent with him, the more he'd come to see the heart that Sherlock so carefully kept hidden away. It was there. Sherlock may have spent most of his life ignoring it, but it was there.

Perhaps that was what Mycroft had been trying to tell him that day in the cafe.

As for the rest, well, John had always identified as heterosexual, and he'd never been sexually attracted to another man. But he wasn't completely oblivious: he'd felt something palpably physical, something unnervingly erotic, for Sherlock from the first moment they'd met. He hadn't known how he felt about that until much later. Still, he'd known that the man was not romantic, nor was he a particularly sexual being — he'd made that clear.

After Irene Adler had shaken things up...John shook his head. Maybe if he'd taken a chance, he'd have more than regret to hold onto.

John sighed, rubbing the tears away with the heel of his hand. So now, here it was. He'd kept Sherlock in a box for months, locked away carefully so he wouldn't have to feel anything, but he wouldn't be able to do that anymore. He had to tell Mary about him. It was only way he could move their relationship along, and he definitely wanted that.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe if he could begin to talk about Sherlock again, he'd be able to remember without having a panic attack.

He set the robe down on the bed and picked up the skull. He stood and walked it over to his desk, setting it on the shelf above his personal laptop, and sat down. He picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Mary.

> _Talk to you 2nite? Important_

The reply came almost immediately:

> _7? Talk then_

___________

"Hello." John smiled at Mary's image. Her lovely hair was pulled back from her face and she was wearing his favourite green shirt. She grinned back at him.

"I was surprised to get your message. What was so urgent that you couldn't wait until tomorrow?" Her tone was gently teasing, but she did sound a little pleased. John was glad though he hoped what he had to tell her wouldn't bring it all crashing down.

"I — well —" John tried to find the right way to begin. "I had a bit of an incident during rounds this morning."

"Are you okay?"

"I am now, yeah. I sort of...remembered...something. Something I've been trying not to think about for a while now."

"That sounds serious."

"Not serious so much as important. It was a big part of my life. The part I haven't told you about." John hesitated. "But I'd really like to tell you now, if you'll let me."

"I'd like that," Mary said softly.

"It started when I returned home after I was wounded."

"When you were working in London?"

"Right, although I left out some things before."

"So you weren't working at the surgery?"

"No, I was practicing, but only locum work. Sort of part-time. I had another...job."

"You don't sound very happy about it. Let me guess: phone sex operator? No, too impersonal. Stripper? I bet you look fabulous in a g-string."

John looked a bit startled and then started to giggle.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be flippant," Mary apologized.

"No, no. It's okay." He shook his head, grateful for the easing of the tension. "I think I needed a laugh."

"So if it wasn't something naughty, then it must have been something covert." Mary gasped, a wicked twinkle in her eye. "John, were you a spy?"

"Ah, no," John said, thinking. "Though it did have elements of espionage, actually. And there was government surveillance."

"Really?" Mary leaned in, looking fascinated. "Spill it, doc. You absolutely have to tell me now."

John hesitated. "I'd found myself this new flat and the job sort of came with it. The whole thing was pretty unusual. And it was actually quite dangerous, at times. And amazing." John pursed his lips, glancing up at the skull. " _He_ was amazing."

"Who was, John?"

"His name was Sherlock," John faltered over the name he had not spoken aloud in months. "Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Words We Never Use - Ron Sexsmith


	7. Song for a Winter's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is due to return home, but he doesn't want to go alone.

John stamped his feet, trying to regain some feeling.

Mary squeezed him tightly. "I'm sorry, John. Look, if you're too cold we'll just skip it."

"No, no. Absolutely no," John insisted. He kissed her softly, teeth chattering slightly. "I refuse to be defeated by the weather. If you lot can survive this, so can I."

Mary stroked his cheek with one fluffy mitten. "My brave soldier."

"Damn right."

They were on a walk through the grounds of the Legislature Buildings in Edmonton, Alberta, enjoying the Christmas lights, carol singing and children ice skating. John thought it was beautiful. Or at least he had for the first twenty minutes. Now he was just cold.

Mary sighed. "You won't say it, so I will: time to go." She took his gloved hand with a smile and led him back to the transit station. "We'll take the train up one stop and get dinner. Sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful."

They walked briskly back to the station and snogged on the platform while they waited. Then they snogged on the train. And giggled like teenagers as they walked to Mary's favourite downtown spot, the Wildflower Grill. They'd eaten there a number of times during his visits to the city, but so far, John hadn't tired of it. Or of spending time with Mary.

This surprised him. It wasn't that he was a cad, not by any stretch. But if he had to be honest, he could admit that he'd had a tendency to lose focus in his previous relationships.

Mary was different. She was fun, exciting and quite happy to find new things to keep him on his toes. And she loved it when he shook things up.

She'd taken him hiking in the mountains and shown him her favourite trails and a secluded alpine lake. She hadn't even blinked when he suggested they try skinny dipping in the (very frosty) clear emerald water. They'd even stumbled upon a bear on the way back out. Far enough away to be safe (and downwind), she'd assured him. It was incredible.

When the weather changed again, she'd introduced him to snowshoes and ice skating. Then she'd taken him back to the mountains to ski. He'd tried poutine, seen aboriginal dancing, gone to a hockey game and eaten maple taffy on snow. John, for his part, had introduced her to good English beer, found a decent chippy to take her to and he'd arranged for her to go up as a passenger with one of the Canadian Air Force Snowbirds demonstration team (a favour from the pilot husband of a recovering MP).

But it had been seven months. John was running out of time, and he was worried. He had a feeling she knew it.

"I'm sorry you got so cold," she rubbed her hand over his as they sat side by side at a secluded corner table. "I hadn't expected the temperature to drop like this when I suggested it."

"S'fine," John smiled down into his risotto. "It was really nice. Very festive."

"John, are you going to miss being in England for Christmas?"

"A little, yeah," he admitted. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.

"Okay, new approach," Mary sighed, with a grin. "We've been tiptoeing around this for weeks, so I'm just going to ask: when are you going home, John?"

John met her eyes, feeling a bit sheepish. "I wanted to talk to you about it, but I just wasn't sure how."

"I know," Mary replied kindly. "I figured I'd just help things along."

"My original contract is up in a couple of months. I could renew, but —"

"But you're ready to go back."

"Yeah, I am."

Mary nodded, putting on a brave face. "I understand. It's okay; I knew you weren't here forever. I just — well, we can still Skype, can't we?"

John stared at her for long moments, relishing the soft eyes, the beautiful mouth, the gentleness and strength that was Mary Morstan. He really did love her very much.

"Come with me."

Mary's eyes widened. "John, you don't have to do this."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." John grabbed her hand in both of his. "I've been thinking about this for two months. I want to go home, but I don't want to be without you."

"But my school, my students —"

"I know," John nodded. “It’s a lot to ask…”

“What would I do in England?”

“Well, I’m sure you’d be able to teach. God knows we have enough scary schools for you, if that’s what you want to do.” His grin was a little crooked.

“Gee, thanks,” she teased.

“Sorry, it’s just —” John hesitated. "I know it's mad, and I have no idea about any of the details. I just know that I want to be with you. Always."

"John…"

"Marry me."

Mary froze. Then she started to giggle. "Oh, holy crap.”

“Not sure exactly how to take that.”

“Take it as a resounding YES!”

John beamed. "Are you sure?"

"Not even remotely. I have absolutely no idea how this will work, but I just know it has to." She took his face in both her hands. "I don't want to be without you, Dr. Watson. Ever again."

John slid around the banquette to pull her into his arms. They were still snogging when the waiter returned with their bill.

_____________

> _News  
>  MH_

> _Busy_

> _Regarding JW  
>  MH_

> _What's wrong?_

> _Met someone. Thought it was casual, like the others. Miscalculated  
>  MH_

There was a long pause before the reply arrived.

> _Who is she?_

> _Canadian. Returning home with him. Engaged  
>  MH_

Another long pause.

> _Found connection. Leaving tonight_

> _Where?  
>  MH_

Mycroft Holmes stared at the image downloading to his phone. A Chinese freight airplane.

He set his phone down on his desk. He opened his laptop and sent two emails, one requesting a meeting with the MI6 Asian division chief in the morning and one to his assistant regarding yet another upgrade to Per Sigerson’s security status and surveillance.

He leaned back in the chair and regarded the photos on his desk. John Watson looked very happy. She was beautiful, and by all accounts quite charming.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Song for a Winter's Night - either Gordon Lightfoot or Sarah McLachlan (I was listening to her version when I wrote it)


	8. A Sort of Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home, and trouble is not far behind.

_John was ill. Sherlock had noticed it immediately when John returned home from the surgery after another long day of cold and flu season. He was pale and had started shivering while he was waiting for the kettle to boil. Sherlock sat at the desk with his laptop before him, watching out of the corner of his eye as his friend — clearly exhausted — tried to sift through the remains in the refrigerator for something to eat._

_“There is bread,” he offered. “And milk.”_

_“Bread,” John repeated, sniffling. “Right, toast then. Wait, you went to the shops?” He turned and looked at Sherlock in surprise. Then he smiled._

_Sherlock stared at him, trying to ignore the warm nebulous something that surged through him at the sound of John’s voice and his obvious pleasure. He shook off the feeling and offered a non-committal shrug, returning his gaze to the screen. “I was out.”_

_“You never remember to do the shopping.”_

_“I **rarely**_ _remember to do the shopping,” he corrected, suddenly feeling awkward under John’s scrutiny. “It’s nothing. I knew you would be late again this evening.”_

_John started to speak, leaving off to sneeze. Twice. He shook his head. “No, no. This is a special occasion. Should be written down somewhere. Maybe I’ll add it to the blog: ‘First sign of the apocalypse: Sherlock did the shopping.’”_

_Sherlock smirked, not looking up from his study of plankton. “You should rest, John. You’re ill.”_

_“I’m fine,” John protested, pouring the tea and dropping bread into the toaster. “I never get the flu.”_

_Less than twenty minutes later, John was sprawled across the sofa on his back sound asleep. His half-drunk tea and half-eaten toast had been abandoned. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, noting the perspiration on the brow. Clearly he was feverish._

_“John, John, John.” He stood with a huff of feigned irritation and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. He crossed the sitting room and stopped beside the sofa. He draped the long wool garment over John’s prone form. He was about to walk away when he heard it._

_“Sh’lock,” John mumbled._

_He was pinned to the spot, staring down at the sleeping man. John was not in his right mind, of course. But, the way he’d spoken Sherlock’s name — so full of trust. And affection. Sherlock glanced down, realizing that he had unconsciously reached out a hand to brush the damp fringe from John’s forehead. He curled the fingers into his palm. Dangerous. And yet…_

_He knelt on the floor, studying the face he knew so well. Why? Why did this man have the ability to penetrate his defences? What was it about John Watson that had the power to make him speak civilly to people he found insufferable? Or to apologize for his perhaps inappropriate but very effective methods? Or do the shopping?_

_Sherlock gave in to the impulse. He dragged one finger across the care-worn brow and eased the sweat-dampened sandy hair from John’s face. He hesitated, surprised by the softness of John’s skin. He turned his hand, allowing his knuckles to trail down the side of John’s face and over one stubbly cheek._

_“Why you?” Sherlock asked softly. He stared at the sleeping man for a few more moments before standing. He was about to turn back to the desk when he paused. He bent, dropping a gentle kiss on the fevered brow._

_“Sherlock.” It was a sigh._

_Sherlock jumped back as though scalded. He waited, but no, John was still asleep. He shifted to his side and burrowed under Sherlock’s coat then started snoring._

_Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He shook his head firmly, retreating to the opposite side of the room. He continued with his website update, glancing up occasionally to make sure John was still covered._

_An internal voice remarked that this behaviour was atypical for a sociopath. He ignored it._

_______________________________

“JOHN!” Sherlock jolted awake, shaken by the memory replayed in his dream. Pain tore through his right side.

“Sherlock.”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Mycroft?”

“Indeed. You’re home, Sherlock. Well, my home,” Mycroft was seated in a wing back chair beside the hospital bed that had clearly been moved into the guest bedroom. Sherlock glanced around at the familiar décor of Mycroft’s country house.

He noted the IV protruding from his arm.  “How long?“

“You’ve been in and out for six days. Blood loss. Fortunately the bullet didn’t hit anything vital. You were very lucky.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “Miss Adler…“ He said the name with obvious distaste. “She ensured you were stabilized while I arranged your exit.”

“I texted her.” Sherlock mused. “How did she find me?”

“She contacted me. However did she get the number, I wonder?” Sherlock ignored him. “I provided her with the coordinates from your phone. She retrieved you and waited for my people to arrive.”

Sherlock sat up, grimacing through the pain. He inspected the bandages covering the lower right quadrant of his bare abdomen.

“Sherlock, lay back. You are in no fit state to be —“

“I figured it out, Mycroft.”

“Of course you did.”

“Gentrec. Smuggling for the Black Lotus, but not goods. People.” Sherlock leaned back against the pillows. Why was it so hard to breathe?

“Illegal immigrants?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Human trafficking. Young women, children. Most bound for Eastern Europe; some for the UK. China, Kazakhstan, Ukraine.”

“Overland? That is ambitious. Are you sure?”

“Secret holds in the trucks. Just enough boxes of goods for inspection at each crossing. Saw customs documents — already approved. British, too. Legitimate. Someone on the inside.”

Mycroft scowled. “That won’t do.”

Sherlock smirked. “No, it won’t.”

“It explains the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?”

“The man you killed in Kiev. He had the mark of the Black Lotus on his heel.” Mycroft considered this as he withdrew a dossier from the table beside Sherlock’s bed. “Well, then it appears we both have work to do,” he said evenly. “I have information regarding the elusive Mr. Morris. You aren’t going to like it.”

“What?”

“The man you met at Gentrec is Steven Morris, but he is not the man who has been operating as Steven Morris outside the United Kingdom.”

“Someone was using his identity?”

“Though obviously with consent of the real Morris and Gentrec. He used Morris’ official expense account, conducted meetings at Gentrec offices in Germany and flew on the corporate jet. No one at the UK headquarters recognized this man — clearly his role is to conduct their less than legitimate business abroad.”

Mycroft removed photos from his file and dropped them on the bed. On the top of the pile was a passport photo for the fake Steven Morris. There were striking similarities, of course, but the man in this photo was older by five years and had lighter eyes.

“He’s your last gunman, Sherlock. Real name Sebastian Fitzgerald Moran. The documents for his Morris identity were created by the same hacker who gave us Rich Brook. Moran was a Special Forces sniper. Eyes-only file. He was dishonourably discharged following years of complaints, psychological evaluations and reprimands. He’d been investigated twice. He’s highly skilled and utterly without remorse. Just the sort Jim Moriarty would have warmed to.”

“He couldn’t take Moriarty’s place, but he could exploit his contacts.”

“Apparently.” Mycroft dropped the rest of the dossier on the side of the bed, but Sherlock ignored it. “What is it?”

“He shot me,” Sherlock’s voice was edged with panic as the puzzle pieces fell into place. “In Kiev. He was there. It had to have been him. It would have taken an exceptional marksman to hit me at that distance and from that angle. If he was there, then he knows I didn’t jump — he might —”

Sherlock threw the covers back and rose from the bed, adrenaline drowning out the pain. “I have to find Lestrade. I need him to protect John and…” He trailed off, unable to say her name.

“Sit!” Mycroft barked. He was standing now, rigid with impatience.

Sherlock complied, momentarily distracted by the calculation of probabilities _._

“I will have Lestrade brought here. You can’t appear on his doorstep like some Dickensian ghost. This will require some delicacy.”

“Mycroft —”

“John is being watched, brother. We’ll keep him safe.” He paused at his brother’s side and placed a tentative hand on the pale shoulder. He turned then and strode out into the hallway. “Henry!”

________________________________ 

Molly woke with a start, suddenly aware of the absence of warmth at her back. She rolled over to the rumpled spot where Greg had been, but he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was hunched over his phone reading a text.

"Greg?"

He turned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," Molly smiled tentatively. She reached and placed a hand on his back. "Is it work again?"

Greg shook his head, looking concerned. "Nah. It's Mycroft." He shook his head. "He's sending a car 'round right away. Says it's urgent."

Molly bit her lip. "He didn't say what it was about?"

Greg shook his head again with sigh. "I haven't heard from him in months. Can't imagine what he wants."

"I ha-have a feeling I might know," Molly said softly.

Greg looked puzzled. He pulled one knee back up on the bed. "You do?"

"I think I do, but I can't say just in case it's not." She hesitated, glancing down at the bed. "Greg, promise me if it is what I think, you won't be angry with me."

"Angry? Why would I be angry, Mol? And how will I know —”

"I wanted to tell you, ages ago, but I-I said I wouldn't. Please just promise me you'll remember that I wanted to tell you."

Greg started to say something then stopped. He nodded and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her cheek. "I promise."

He stood and walked to the wardrobe to dig out some trousers. He'd only moved in a few weeks before, so they were still in the process of figuring out whose things would go where.

Greg, for his part, hadn't had any difficulty deciding to share his life with the lovely Molly Hooper. She was so different from any woman he'd ever dated. When he'd first asked her out, she'd been so shy and awkward, so uncertain of herself. After the first few weeks of dating, though, she'd started to open up and he had fallen head over heels.

The girl was amazing. Really clever, but incredibly kind. A bit of a free spirit, but he liked that about her. And she was funny as hell. The way she looked at him made him feel like a superhero.

Molly laid her head back on her pillow, watching Greg dress and basking in wonder that this handsome, sweet, sexy man wanted her. She yawned, trying to think what it was that could possibly have made him take notice of her. There was that Christmas dress, of course, but he seemed to like to look at her no matter what she was wearing. He laughed at her jokes and he never made her feel silly. He thought she was bright. He'd introduced her to his mum.

Greg turned then, doing up his belt. Molly's eyes were closed, one arm curled under her head. He leaned over her and kissed her forehead.

"Sleep, sweetheart. I'll be home soon." She made a contented humming noise as he pulled the covers up over her shoulder.

He watched her sleep as he buttoned his cuffs, his brow furrowed as he thought about what she'd said. Why would she think he'd be angry with her because of Mycroft? Well, he'd know what it was all about soon enough. And he would not be angry with his beautiful girl. Not on account of a Holmes.

The black saloon was waiting for him as he left the flat. A young woman in a dark suit was waiting. She held the back door for him before sliding in beside him.

"I don't suppose there's any point in me asking where we're going?"

She smiled like a Cheshire cat and shook her head before turning her attention to her phone. Greg looked out at pre-dawn London and sighed.

The journey took the better part of an hour. By the time they pulled up in front of the large country house in Kent, pink shards of daylight had begun to streak the sky.

Greg had dozed in the car; he stretched as he got out of the car and surveyed the great red brick pile in front of him.

“So this is how the other half lives.” He sighed heavily and made his way through the open front door, held by a small older man in a grey suit. Did people really still have butlers?

Greg regarded the well-dressed young man waiting for him in the foyer. Under six feet but broad. No neck. “Lemme guess: hooker, right?”

“If you’ll follow me, Detective Inspector.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

The young man started up the grand staircase. Greg followed, trying not to gawk at the old world grandeur of Mycroft’s retreat. Whatever the hell his official job title was, it bloody paid well.  At the top of the stairs, they turned left and followed a long, dark, wood-panelled hallway to the last room on the right. The young man opened the door for him and let him pass. Greg watched as he nodded and closed the door behind him.

“Detective Inspector?”

Greg turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Mr. Holmes.”

“I apologize for the urgency and the hour.”

“Ah, never mind.” Greg shrugged, quickly surveying the small sitting area of a guest bedroom. “I’d only just got into bed anyway.”

“The Harmegran case? I heard, of course, but I haven’t had time to review the details.”

Greg nodded. “Murder. Gunshot. Door locked from the inside. No weapon, no open windows, no sign of any bullet entry anywhere in the room.”

“Was anyone else at home?” came another familiar voice from the shadows at the far side of the room. Greg peered. It couldn’t be. He squinted into the darkness at a wingback chair beside a hospital bed (hospital bed?).

Sherlock stood, just visible in the half-light coming through the window.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, for god’s sake.”

“What about vents or other openings in the room? A fireplace?”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. He crossed quickly to where Greg stood paralyzed, his mouth hanging open. He directed the DI to a nearby chair and settled him in. “I do apologize, inspector. This isn’t how I’d planned to begin this conversation. But, as you know, my little brother has always been distracted easily by a puzzle.”

“Sherlock?” Greg’s voice was weak. He stared, then pointed. “But you — and we — how? Oh shit — JOHN! You son of a bitch!!”

He stood again quickly. The bedroom door opened and Henry appeared. Mycroft waved him off, stepping into the breach himself.

“I understand how you must feel, inspector, but there was a very good reason for all of it. Which Sherlock will explain to you now, won’t you Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, almost managing to look sheepish. He stepped forward, dragging the IV with him. Greg sat back down and watched the robe-clad, wraith-like figure approaching.

“Were you sick or something?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Gunshot wound. Long story.” He stopped at the chair across Greg and sat cautiously. “Best if I begin at Bart’s.”

Fifteen minutes later, Greg’s head was reeling. He’d nodded a lot, tried not to look shocked. He’d felt blazing anger at being so duped, and embarrassment at not having figured it out. Then all he felt was profound sadness. This was going to kill John.

He sat staring out the nearest window at the early morning light. What could he say? Not only was Sherlock Holmes still alive but the man had faked his own death in part to save Greg’s life. He’d been right: Sherlock Holmes was going to be a good man. That was some consolation.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock offered.

“Nah, I mean — jesus, Sherlock. You saved my life, and Mrs. Hudson and John. I get it.”

“And you’re not going to be angry with Molly? I understand you are now living together.”

“Why would I be angry with my darling girl?” Greg sounded bewildered. “She is a goddess. What she did for you? The risks she took? Keeping your secret all this time to keep us all safe? My god, I’ve never been more in love with her than I am right now.”

Sherlock nodded. “There is something we need to discuss with you, regarding the last assassin.”

“I was just wondering about John,” Greg interrupted. “Are you going to tell him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not right away, at least. What would be the point? He’s happy now.”

“You have no idea what it did to him.”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said softly. His hand lifted unconsciously to hold John’s dog tags where they lay over his heart.

Greg followed the motion, instantly recognizing the metal plates as they disappeared into Sherlock’s fist. “Molly was right.”

“About?”

“You’re in love with him. And John —” Greg stared at the man across from him as though he were seeing a complete stranger. “How the hell did I miss that?”

“Whatever John was three years ago, I cannot say.” Sherlock squared his jaw. “However, he has moved on, and I’m…glad.”

Greg shook his head. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“The last gunman,” Sherlock continued. “His name is Sebastian Moran. He’s been posing as the head of Asian operations for Gentrec Transport. He availed himself of some of Moriarty’s contacts and built himself a nice little human trafficking operation from China, via Kazakhstan and the Ukraine. They have a contact somewhere in the Home Office — a customs officer perhaps? Someone with ties to China, most likely. Anyway, Mycroft will take care of those details. What I need from you is protection for John and…”

“Mary. Just wait a second, though. I know this is going to sound mad, but the wife of my vic, from last night…”

“Lord Harmegran’s daughter-in-law?” Mycroft posed the question as he re-entered the room, having nipped out to order coffee once it became clear that Lestrade wasn’t going to do Sherlock any bodily harm.

“Uh, yeah,” Greg replied, turning back to Sherlock. “The murder victim from last night was a prominent human rights barrister — Richard Farrelly Harmegran. Well liked, apparently; quite a philanthropist. No known enemies. Son of Lord William Harmegran, the former ambassador to China.”

“And?” Sherlock’s voice was barely patient.

“His wife is a customs officer now, but he met her when she was working for his father. In China.” Greg looked from one Holmes to the other, waiting for some kind of confirmation. “What? Coincidence that he turns up dead just as you start closing in on a Chinese human trafficking operation?”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock said firmly. “Mrs. Harmegran may be —”

“Fitzgerald.”

“What?” Mycroft and Sherlock responded in unison.

“Sian Fitzgerald,” Greg repeated. “She kept her own name. Why?”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a meaningful look. Mycroft started toward the hallway, his phone already halfway to his ear.

“Sherlock?”

“I think, Lestrade, that your murder investigation may come to a conclusion sooner than you think.” He smirked. “My sniper? Sebastian **Fitzgerald** Moran. Well done.”

Greg opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He had absolutely no idea what to say in response to praise from Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it,” he said sharply. “Look, leave the traffickers and Ms Fitzgerald to Mycroft. Moran is the problem; he knows I’m alive. He was the one who shot me in Kiev. He may try to finish what Moriarty started three years ago. You need to protect them.”

“John and Mary…oh, shit.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Probably one of the most bizarre coincidences I’ve ever heard of,” Greg mumbled.

“There is rarely any such thing,” Sherlock replied sharply. “What is it?”

“Yesterday Mary followed some homeless kid that’s been hiding out at her school back to some dodgy warehouse. She lost the kid, but she said she saw some pretty shifty looking characters and some large transport trucks. She thought they were Russian.”

“Kazakh.”

“Probably, yeah,” Greg agreed. “Fuck, I can’t believe she’s stumbled into the middle of this. Right, I’ll have a detail assigned to them right away. I’ll go by and explain everything as soon as I get back.” He pulled his phone out and stood, striding over to the window to make the call.

Mycroft returned from the hallway and crossed to Greg. “I have been informed that John and his wife left home early this morning. They are on the train to Walton-on-Thames now — I have them. I will let you know where to pick them up.”

Greg nodded. “Donovan? I need a protection detail for the Watsons...”

Mycroft turned his attention back to Sherlock, on his way to the far side of the bedroom. “Clothes,” the younger man said abruptly.

“You are not going anywhere.”

“You know I will go like this,” Sherlock said blandly, carefully removing his IV. “Your choice.”

Mycroft huffed with resignation. “There are some trousers in the wardrobe. New shirts in the bureau.”

Sherlock located the items quickly and was soon half-dressed.

Greg returned to his chair just as Henry returned to the room with a tray. Mycroft poured three cups of coffee and handed one to Greg.

Greg accepted the black coffee and swallowed half of it immediately. “Oh, that tastes good.”

Sherlock strode back to join them. He’d found his coat and shoes in the wardrobe as well. “Lestrade, I need the location of that warehouse. I have to get to Moran. Car’s too slow. Mycroft…”

“Warehouse?” Mycroft looked puzzled.

“Come on, both of you. Mycroft, tell your pilot to warm up the helicopter. I’ll explain on the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Sort of Homecoming - U2


	9. This Woman's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is on the way, but it will be too late...

The market was overrun. John stared at the mob that had congregated outside the main entrance on the High Street.

“What’s all this, do you suppose?”

Mary dodged to avoid being jostled away from John’s side. “Wow, don’t know, but there weren’t this many people here the last time.”

John wrapped a protective arm around her waist and drew her close. He scanned the crowd trying to get a look at one of their placards.

“Child labour in Asia?”

“Oh,” Mary responded. Then after a moment, “Well, I suppose this is as good a place as any. So much stuff everywhere these days produced in sweatshops.”

“Maybe we should do this another day.”

“We’re already here. Could we just run through and pick up the throw cushions we saw last time?”

John hadn’t really been in the mood for shopping after spending the morning on the train for a brief visit with Harry.

His sister had been sober for over a year, and reconciled with Clara for more than eight months. They had decided to adopt but they didn’t want to raise kids in the city. They’d bought a place in Walton. Mary was keen to see the house and their redecorating. John didn’t see the point in spending 40 minutes on the train each way just for brunch, but his Canadian wife didn’t seem to think that was a very long trip at all.

Then, when they got back to town, she insisted on popping in to Camden Market. He wanted to protest that Saturday afternoons were best spent drinking tea and napping in the garden, until it had occurred to him that he might chance to find the strange bookseller again. Something about the old man had struck a chord. And if it made Mary happy as well…

It was beginning to look, though, like a very bad idea.

He dragged her close and began shouldering their way through the crowd. The noise increased steadily as they neared the market, as did John’s impending sense of doom. He’d never liked close spaces and the crush of this many bodies was making him decidedly claustrophobic. He was slammed from behind and Mary was knocked from his embrace. He stumbled and turned to locate whoever had hit him. Too many people — no way to know who it had been. He turned to retrieve his wife, but she was gone, absorbed into the masses.

“Mary?” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. No need to worry. She couldn’t have got too far away in a matter of seconds. He scanned left and right. “Damn it! Mary??”

“John! Over here!”

He spotted the top of one of Mary’s hands above the heads of those surrounding him. He dropped his shoulders and began plowing his way toward her. There was a shout somewhere to his left and then — sirens?

Police. The crowd began to shudder and shift in earnest, impeding John’s progress. A warning in another language was shouted. Was that Mandarin? Bodies began to scatter and a general sense of panic began to set in. The protesters were edgy and the rest of the crowd was too confined to disperse easily. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Mary!!” He forged ahead in the direction she had been. “Where are you?”

“John?” He saw the hand again.

“Try to stay there. I’m coming!”

A hand grabbed at him; he shook it off. And then…

Women screaming. 

The crowd heaved away from the sound and started driving into John hard and fast as he tried to push through them to where Mary had been. He was shouting her name, but he could barely hear the sound of his own voice. Everything slowed, becoming hazy as he dragged himself forward against the onrushing tide of humanity.

And suddenly there was emptiness. A gulf had opened in the centre of the swirl of bodies.

“MARY!” Blood. So much blood. “Jesus!”

John dropped to his knees. No time to panic. No time to go to pieces. Not now.

Stab wound, upper left centre. Oh, god, she was going to bleed out. He removed Mary’s scarf and wadded it up, applying pressure to the wound. He rolled her gingerly — no exit wound.

The crowd formed a circle around them, watching in horror as a young woman lay bleeding to death.

Two men in dark suits suddenly appeared. John’s mind vaguely recognized them as some species of Mycroft, but barely acknowledged them. One was restraining the crowd, the other calling for assistance. Two Met officers arrived right on their heels, clearing a path for the ambulance that surely must be on its way.

John checked her pulse. Thready, but still there. “Come on, Mary. Stay with me. Please, stay with me.”

“John? Oh, Christ!” Lestrade burst through the crowd.

“Greg, help me!”

Siren. Ambulance coming. Lestrade dropped to his knees on Mary’s other side. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to keep pressure on the wound.” Greg reached across and replaced John’s hands over the crumpled and sodden scarf.

John checked Mary’s pupils (non-responsive). No rise and fall, left side. John dropped his head to Mary’s chest. Decreased breath sounds (pneumothorax). He turned to address the crowd. “I need a biro and a pocket knife. Anything resembling a tube and something sharp I can cut with. Please! Anyone?”

A man in a flowered shirt stepped forward and produced a small pocket knife. A young woman from a nearby stall ran forward with an old-fashioned plastic-tube biro with a lid. John discarded the lid and tore the ink well out of the plastic casing. He took the knife and tested it. Not great, but sharp enough. He felt quickly for the second intercostal space and made the smallest possible incision. He used the tip of the knife to ease the plastic tube into the incision, gratified by the sudden release of air through it.

A surge of hope burst through him until he took her pulse again. Nothing.

“Please, oh please, no —”

“What?”

“Greg, I need you to keep pressure on that wound; don’t ease up. I’m going to have to start chest compressions.”

John was still counting when the EMTs arrived.

Greg was shuffled out of the way and stood off to the side. John refused to be moved from Mary and continued chest compressions while the trauma team bagged her and attempted to check vitals and get blood started.

Greg watched, horrified as John and the two medics struggled to save Mary. After ten long agonizing minutes that felt like years, the young female EMT looked up at him with a pained expression. She shook her head. The other EMT addressed John carefully.

“Sir, how long have you been administering CPR?”

“Dunno,” John grunted.

“Eighteen minutes now,” one of the black suits said softly. The EMT nodded.

“Sir, please,” the young EMT laid a gentle hand over John’s.

“No,” John snarled, bucking the hands away.

“John —” Greg started.

“NO!”

The young woman kneeling beside John leaned in. “John,” she said softly. “It’s time to let go.”

John stopped abruptly. He dropped his hands to his sides, panting with exertion and fear. For several long moments, there was silence. Then he sobbed, one horrible wrenching sound escaping his lips as his head dropped to his chest. He shoved the young woman beside him out of his way and gathered Mary to him.

No one but Greg noticed the tall pale man in the long coat as he slipped through the crowd. Just in the distance, Greg could see a sleek black saloon with Mycroft Holmes beside it. Sherlock started to approach them.

Greg waved at Mycroft; Mycroft signalled the two black suits. They slipped through the crowd silently, intercepting Sherlock before John could see him. The crowd parted a little, though — just enough for Sherlock to see John crouched on the ground with Mary’s bloody body in his arms.

He started to slide toward the ground. The suits caught him and helped him back to the car, well out of sight and earshot. “Come away, brother,” Mycroft whispered. “You cannot help him. Not now.”

Sherlock braced his battered body against the car. His eyes were wide with horror. He couldn’t bear for John to be in this much pain. Not again.

But there was one thing he could do.

“I have to go.” Sherlock straightened abruptly, his voice raw. “I know where he will be.”

Mycroft shook his head, easily comprehending his meaning. “No, Sherlock. You cannot go after Moran now. You’re not strong enough.”

Sherlock was already moving and the two suits had already returned to assist the police with the crowd by the time Mycroft spoke.

Sherlock disappeared into the sea of bodies and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: This Woman's Work - Kate Bush (Yeah, so OK it's about childbirth. So sue me)


	10. Take Aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enough.

The warehouse was deserted. No sign of the Kazakh trucks or of any recent activity.

Sherlock advanced cautiously. He’d taken the precaution of lifting a weapon from one of his brother’s suits, but he was more than aware that he was no match for a marksman like Moran.

The man had to be there, he was certain of it. Moran had as good as called his name.

“No need to be quiet, Holmes,” a voice called from above. “We both know I’ve been waiting for you.”

Sherlock froze, quickly ascertaining the direction the voice had come from and estimating the range of the shot.

“Come on, turn around,” Moran called down.

“How did you know?” Sherlock pivoted on his heel.

“How did I know you were alive? Still?” the man scoffed. “I don’t make mistakes, you prick. If I’d wanted to kill you in Kiev, you’d be dead. My people allowed that stupid Adler bitch to pick you up. I knew you’d make it.”

“Why…”

“I wasn’t done yet. You were finally getting close enough to make the game interesting.”

“But why the game? Why not just kill John; kill me?”

“Because that’s not what Jim would have done,” Moran called back, his voice bored. “He loved to play and I loved watching him do it. When I realized you hadn’t killed yourself that day, when the others turned up dead and ‘someone’ started sniffing around the shipping company, I decided to make this a little memorial. Play you the way Jim might have. This was for him.”

“They’ll be here any minute, you know.”

“Doesn’t matter.” There was a pause. Sherlock could make out the sounds of a rifle being set down.

Footsteps. Why...

“So you want to finish this by hand,” Sherlock drawled, watching as Moran descended the stairs leading from the catwalk overhead.

“More satisfying for me,” the man replied, cracking his knuckles. “You’re reputed to be a decent hand fighter; I’m a boxer. I figure we’ll get on together.”

“And, of course, I’m wounded.”

Moran grinned as he approached. “Never said it would be a fair fight.”

Sherlock shrugged his coat off. “My brother will kill you.”

Moran shrugged. “I’ve been prepared for that for three years.”

Moran advanced, snapping out a quick right. Sherlock dodged the blow and began to circle. 

“Why Mary?”

“My Kazakh friends became a little anxious when she turned up here yesterday,” Moran replied. He feinted and then levelled a left hook at Sherlock’s skull. The detective ducked, but the blow just caught him. He was still a little dazed when Moran exploited the hit with a punishing blow to Sherlock’s ribs, just above his wound.

Sherlock roared in pain and stumbled, backing away from Moran.

“When I realized who she was…well, I figured that would be a wonderful bonus,” Moran continued, stalking Sherlock across the dirty concrete floor. “I had one of my Chinese contacts carry out the hit. Very messy, but effective. My partners are satisfied, I’ve drawn you out and your friend the doctor is in pieces.”

Moran struck again, clipping one sharp cheekbone with a meaty fist. Sherlock lost his balance and fell back on one hand. Moran dragged him up by the lapels until they were eye to eye.

“He was a dead man walking after your ‘suicide’. Now he’s lost his wife — I don’t imagine he’ll bounce back this time. I think that’s actually more satisfying than killing him myself.”

Moran drove his fist into Sherlock’s midsection. Sherlock crumpled, but Moran held him up.

“So you can die knowing that your doctor will be right behind you.” Sherlock gazed into the icy blue eyes as the man spat the words into his face. “Doesn’t matter what happens to me now. I. Still. Win.”

Sherlock moved with a speed and grace Moran could not possibly have been expecting of a man now bleeding from a re-opened gunshot wound. He drove his forehead into the man’s face, breaking his hold on Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock took a step back as Moran staggered, blood pouring from a broken nose. Sherlock caught him with a combination to his midsection. He swept the man’s legs out from under him and pounced as Moran hit the floor. He caught the man by the shoulders, Moran’s knee coming up to hit his already bleeding side.

There was commotion above as Sherlock grappled on the floor with his final sniper. He could hear Lestrade, the sound of chopper blades overhead — Mycroft had come as well.

Moran hit him again; Sherlock retaliated.

Neither of them heard the approach of the armed response team. Sherlock struggled as strong hands dragged him off Moran and held him back.

Two officers pulled the colonel to his feet. He was grinning fiendishly through the blood on his face. “I’ll find a way. You know I will. As long as I’m alive, I’ll find a wa —”

Sherlock started as the bullet penetrated Moran’s forehead and the man’s eyes went blank. He turned to see Mycroft standing just behind him, a gun in his hand.

“Enough,” the man said quietly.

Sherlock began to sag as he watched the body fall to the floor. He could stop the bleeding, some at least. Enough to keep him upright until he could…

“Sherlock.” Mycroft stood beside him. “Hospital. Now.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I have to see him.”

“This really isn’t the time…”

Sherlock shrugged his brother’s hand off. Greg appeared by his side and took hold of his arm.

“You can’t just turn up, Sher —”

Greg was cut off as Sherlock’s fist connected with his jaw. The detective spun and struck at the nearest of his brother’s people, making a gap just big enough for him to sprint for the door.

He did not look behind him. He knew they could overtake him if they really wanted to, but somehow he knew they wouldn’t try. Mycroft was going to let him make this mistake, it seemed.

It was the worst decision he could take — some part of him knew that — but he did not have the will to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Take Aim - Kasabian


	11. My Body is a Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed, but will it be too much for John?

John stood silently in Bart's morgue. For the second time in three years, he had accompanied the body of someone he loved to this hospital. God, how he hated this place.

They hadn't really needed him, but he didn't want Mary to go alone, to be alone at the end. He felt sick, leaning against the cold, white wall.

Molly had been with him, holding his hand throughout. After they'd taken Mary away, she'd stood with him, not saying a word. They were still in her room, rather than the room usually used for families.

"John, are you okay?"

He shook his head, not trusting himself to answer. He rubbed absently at the stains on his hands and clothes. He was still covered in her blood.

"Greg was already on his way — in a hurry, apparently. Would you rather I called a cab instead?"

John stared at the ugly grey linoleum. He thought he'd shaken his head, but he couldn't be sure. None of it seemed real. Nothing...

Molly gasped. John started and glanced up. Molly was staring over his shoulder at something in the door behind him.

John turned slowly, following her gaze. He felt the breath leave his body as though he'd been punched.

The dark hair was longer, wavier; the face was leaner. The coat was the same — that damn coat. The eyes were no longer staring blankly in death; pupils no longer fixed and dilated. There was no blood. No blood.

"John." The apparition moved toward him. His voice. How could that be? How could any of this be? Sherlock Holmes was dead. John tilted weakly.

"Sherl…" John's voice trailed off as his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went slack. Sherlock caught him — just — but his own wounded body crumpled beneath the added weight. He knelt on the floor, cradling John in his arms.

Molly stood helplessly, her eyes filled with tears now.

"Water," Sherlock barked. He looked up at her, his light eyes wide with panic. His voice softened. "Please, I —"

Molly nodded and darted through the door to the waiting room. She grabbed a paper cup and filled it at the cooler. She rushed back to find Sherlock brushing a hand over John's cheek.

"John? John?" Sherlock sounded confused, lost. Molly stepped closer and started to hand him the cup. He reached for it with a shaking hand.

"Oh!" Molly gasped as John's eyes fluttered open. The cup hit the floor between them, water splashing out over Molly's trousers.

John took a second to focus, finally finding the familiar blue-green eyes and holding there.

Sherlock stared at him, searching for clues in John's expression. Nothing he saw prepared him for what came next.

John roared — a horrible, inhuman noise — grabbing Sherlock by his coat and rolling over and back until the taller man was sprawled under him. He straddled him, shaking him by the lapels.

"You were dead! You made me believe you were DEAD, you _bastard_!" John punctuated this last with his fist, ignoring the injuries Sherlock had already sustained and no longer taking care to avoid his nose and teeth.

"John, no!" Molly shouted. She reached for John's arm, but he shook her off with a snarl. The eyes that had been empty and dead for so long, then filled with new light, were blazing now. Molly backed away.

He hit Sherlock again. "Fight back, you coward! You miserable! Fucking! Bastard!" Each word was punctuated with a blow, but Sherlock lay still beneath him. He did not raise a hand to strike or to defend himself. He recoiled with each contact, but did not flinch.

John's anger began to recede. He gasped for breath, staring at the ceiling, his freshly bloodied fist hanging limp at his side. He pulled back and looked at Sherlock and he moaned.

"Oh, god." He pushed himself up and away and retreated to the wall. Sherlock sat up and raised a tentative hand to wipe away the blood covering his eye. There was a gash above his brow and on his cheekbone. His nose was bleeding and he spat out the blood that had begun to run from his mouth.

He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on all fours. He stood cautiously, reaching for the nearest table to steady himself.

"Oh, god, Sherlock, I didn't mean — I —" John stammered. He glanced at his bleeding knuckles and covered his face with his hands.

"It's not your fault, John," Sherlock rasped. "I did this. I caused it."

"Why? Why? WHY??"

"There was a sniper at Bart's. That day. For you." Sherlock turned to face him now. "And there was an assassin at home, with Mrs. Hudson. Remember the builder?"

John nodded, his mouth agape.

"And one outside Lestrade's office door. That was the final problem. Moriarty gave me a choice: kill myself in disgrace or let all of you die."

John shook his head, trying to comprehend.

"But how? I saw you fall. I saw the blood. I couldn't find your pulse."

"Just a magic trick, John," Sherlock's battered mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I'd hoped you might understand, that you would figure it out, but I —" He hesitated. "I knew you would grieve, but I never imagined…"

"Never imagined what?" John shouted. "That this would _destroy_ me? That I might not be able to bounce back from having to watch my best friend kill himself?"

"I realized it was a risk," Sherlock said softly, closing his eyes. "At first I was concerned that you might...do yourself harm."

"Oh, that's very considerate of you. Worried about me shooting myself. Or maybe you thought I'd follow you off the ledge?" John sneered. "How the hell did you know I wouldn't?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Mycroft assured me that your therapist saw no immedi —"

"DON'T!" John shouted.

"John, I know how this sounds, but you have to believe me when I say there was no other choice," Sherlock stared at his shoes. "Moriarty wanted me dead. I knew it. And I had very little time to plan."

"But you DID plan, didn't you?"

"Yes, but  —"

"Who?" John snapped. "Who, Sherlock? Who knew you were alive?"

Sherlock continued staring at the floor, unwilling to meet John's hard glare.

"I did."

"Pardon?" John turned to where Molly had pressed herself up against the door to her lab. His face was tight with anger but he looked so, so sad.

Molly trembled a little. "I did. I h-helped. With all of it."

John stared at her, still obviously angry but calmer. "How?"

"How?" Sherlock repeated, confused.

"HOW?" John barked, turning his anger back on Sherlock. "I think I have the right to know how it was done!"

"John, please. I think you might be in shock," Molly started.

"Really. Do you think?!"

"Let me explain."

He rounded on her. "That's why I couldn't find you, isn't it? The day he — the day it happened? You were with him. Helping him."

"Yes, but John, you have to understand —"

"Get. Out."

Molly jumped back. She'd never seen this John before and she was terrified. She looked past him to Sherlock for guidance, but he just nodded. She backed up to the door and pushed through it slowly. She continued backing up until it swung past her, shutting her off from the two men.

She could just see them through the window. She wondered if she should go, call for help maybe. But then she watched as Sherlock tried to close the distance between himself and John, like he was stalking a frightened animal. Molly choked on her tears. No, she realized sadly. Finally, finally, this needed to be done.

John watched Molly leave and turned back to Sherlock. Dark blue eyes met lighter ones and held. He continued to stare, like a thirsty man staring at water, drinking in every detail of the man he had missed for three years. Sherlock tried edging forward, but John held up a hand.

"Tell me," he demanded.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said.

"It matters to me," John bit out. "I need to know just how fucking stupid I really am."

Sherlock went very still. This was a reaction he hadn't even considered. "John, no."

"TELL ME!"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "The lorry, in front of Bart's. I landed in the back and then rolled out onto the pavement." He found he could not maintain eye contact with John as he rattled through the details.

"Molly supplied me with the blood and with an appropriate body. My pulse…I used the rubber ball I was bouncing when you got to the lab, under my arm up against the artery. Molly ensured there would be medical staff nearby — they were certain to remove me as quickly as possible. The cyclist was one of my homeless network; I needed to keep you away long enough to effect the illusion."

Sherlock paused, glancing at John. He was shaking now, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Mycroft helped, of course: logistics, documents. And he arranged for the call about Mrs. Hudson."

"You sent me away."

"I had to deal with Moriarty on my own." Sherlock jumped as John began to laugh; it was high-pitched, manic.

"So that's it? Jes — that's IT? I walked around like a fucking zombie because of a rubber ball and some rubbish??"

Sherlock winced.

"I don't fucking believe this —"

"John, I'm sorry. About everything. I wish I could undo all of this."

"But you can't! You can't." John began to circle, feeling the walls closing in. "Mary — oh, god — Mary, Mary, Mary. She's gone, and —"

"I'm sorry, John."

"And this, _this_ is when you decide to tell me?" John's voice was strained.

Sherlock opened his mouth to apologize again, but he knew how it would sound. Instead he said softly, "I didn't want you to have to face this alone."

"But how did you —” John’s lips tightened into a thin line. “You were there, weren't you?"

Sherlock's voice was intense. "The people who trafficked the boy from China; they had her killed. She’d seen them at the warehouse. I knew because…because their British contact is the same man Moriarty sent to kill you that day. I've been hunting Moran for three years. Today, I caught up with him.” _I’m so sorry, John._ “We tried to get there in time…"

"This was because of Moriarty?"

"No. Sort of. I learned about the human trafficking very recently. Moran took advantage of Moriarty's contacts and this is what he built. I didn't know Mary had become involved until today. You have to believe that. I tried to get to her — to you — in time."

"But you didn't." John's voice was frayed. "If she hadn't married me, she would never have been in that school, she would never have found the boy. If I hadn't gone to Canada, if I hadn't met her, she would still be alive." John was shaking now. "I only went to Canada because my best friend was dead and most of me died with him."

"I had to protect you."

"YOU MADE ME WATCH YOU DIE!"

"I had to be sure you believed it, John." Sherlock edged closer, noting John's dilated pupils, his elevated heart rate. He was breaking down. "If you had come looking for me —"

"But you could have told me why, found a way to contact me!" John growled. "You were my best friend. Why didn't SOMEONE. TELL. ME?!"

John's breath came faster and faster and a strangled noise rose in his throat. He collapsed to his knees on the cold linoleum. He was heaving now, nausea coming in waves. He felt like his chest was going to explode.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"John, please."

"NO!" John pointed a shaking hand in Sherlock's general direction. "No, don't you say another word, you selfish, fucking bastard — you — jesus, she died because of me! Because of YOU!"

He turned an ashen, tear-stained face to his resurrected friend. "How could you do this?"

It was a ragged whisper, as though he barely had the breath to speak at all. Sherlock was shaking now, feeling something he couldn't quite identify. He felt dirty, wrong — what was it? His eyes widened as he found the word: _guilt_. He was guilty. He backed away from the accusation on John's face.

"I had to keep you safe," he muttered, suddenly feeling very weak. "Moriarty would have killed you. A-and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

John was staring at the floor, shaking his head. A groan ripped through his body. "Oh my god."

"John, I wanted to make sure the threat was gone. I tried to destroy every trace of Moriarty's network—Moran was the last. I tried —" He broke off, unable to find the words to apologize for having failed. "I wanted to tell you. You have no idea how badly I wanted to let you know. But then you'd moved on. I thought I should just —" He choked on the words. "Just let you be happy. I'm so sorry."

John drew a shuddering breath. "You don't understand. You don't see."

"See what? Tell me." Sherlock knew he was pleading now. He edged closer to his friend and crouched. "Please."

"She loved me!" John shouted. "She DIED because she loved _me_. And I — oh jesus, I —" He had his head in his hands.

There was a long painful pause. Sherlock reached out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder.

John's voice was barely audible as he finally spoke again. "I never loved her the way I loved you."

Sherlock felt his legs giving way, falling backward to land ungracefully on the floor. He could feel the weight of the guilt threatening to suffocate him. A weakness found in the losing side. He'd been right: he was about to lose everything.

John raised a tortured face to him. "Don't you understand? Don't you see what this makes me? What I did to her? What I took from her? I didn't — I couldn't…oh god..."

John's body was wracked with sobs. The patched and barely mended man of the last three years finally collapsed under the weight of despair. He began to slide sideways, dissolving slowly into the floor. Sherlock snapped. He lurched forward, capturing John in his arms and pulling him close.

John sagged into the embrace, sprawled across Sherlock's lap and clutching his arm. He buried his face in the familiar dark coat and wept. Sherlock curled around him, rocking now, and dropped his chin to John's head.

In the next room, Molly continued to watch through the window. She was crying unashamedly now, her hand covering her mouth for fear of making any noise at all that might impose on the heart-breaking scene she had just witnessed. She cried with them, for them, wishing so much she had said something to one or both of them so long ago. Maybe all this could have been prevented. Maybe, if they could have said before...

"Mol?"

Molly's hand dropped at the welcome sound of Greg's voice. She turned to see him striding across the room toward her, his face betraying his concern. She didn't wait for him to reach her, but ran into his arms. She pressed her damp cheek into his shoulder and pulled him tight.

Greg welcomed the embrace, happily pulling her into his warmth. "Are you all right? Is he...?"

Molly shook her head and held on. Greg's head snapped up when he heard a howl from the morgue.

"Oh, god. John..." He started to release her, but Molly grasped his upper arms and stood firm.

"No, Greg, you can't." She looked into his eyes. "Leave them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: My Body is a Cage - either Arcade Fire or Peter Gabriel (I was listening to PG's cover)


	12. Someone You'd Admire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What once was broken...

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

There was nothing to drown out the sound of the rain. An analog clock ticked somewhere behind him and there was a soft humming from the computer on the desk in the corner.

The rest was silence.

John sat straight-backed, legs crossed, in the dark chair by the window and stared at the empty seat across from him.

He cleared his throat and took a heavy breath. He checked his watch. Finally there was a rattling behind him as someone opened the office door.

"Hello, John," Ella said breathlessly. She crossed the space quickly and settled into her chair. "I'm so sorry for being late. My last appointment went a bit long."

"S'okay," John said, smiling. Ella glanced up from her notebook and stopped. She cocked her head to the side and studied him. "What?"

"I haven't seen you really smile in a long time," she said.

John cleared his throat again, even now still uncomfortable with being assessed. "Yeah, well, I haven't felt like really smiling in a long time."

"What's changed?"

John pulled an envelope out of his pocket and smoothed it against his thigh. "I found this yesterday. I was going through some of Mary's things." He passed the envelope across to Ella. "It was in her jewellery box, underneath everything."

"What is it?" Ella asked, turning it over in her hand to read the front. "'To John, on our 25th anniversary'..."

John nodded, clasping his hands together in his lap. "She wrote it the night before the wedding."

"What does it say, John?"

"You should go ahead and read it. I think that will be easier." John cleared his throat again.

"You're sure you don't mind?"

"It's fine." He turned to look out at the rain.

Ella removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it.

> _Dear John (well, isn't that a funny way to begin a love letter),_

> _I am writing this because I want to capture this moment and hold on to it, so we can share it again when we're grey. I assume if you are reading this that we are. Grey, that is. And that we have managed to get there together._

> _It’s the night before our wedding. I'm at home, with Molly, and you are currently on your way to sleep on Greg's sofa bed. You sentimental thing._

> _I am so happy, John. Happy in a way that I never thought I would be. I can't wait for tomorrow to come. I can't wait to be your wife._

> _I wonder what we will be doing after 25 years. I hope we are living by the sea._

> _It's a funny old life, isn't it? How you ended up in Canada, how you and I met…it makes a girl wonder. But then I realize your life has taken a number of unexpected turns in the last few years. Especially the turn in the park that day. The day you met Sherlock._

> _Is it okay that I'm bringing this up? I hope by the time you are reading this you are able to talk about him with me without the haunted look you get whenever Greg and Molly mention his name. I know it will take time. I'm glad we'll have that time together._

> _I know you'll never get over Sherlock. Not completely. And it's okay. He's a pretty tough act to follow. I know you tried to tell me, in your way, that the rumours about you two weren't true. I believe you. I also believe you loved him in a way you probably didn't expect and didn't know how to name._

> _I don't want to take that away from you. The time you spent with him has helped make you the John I know and love. Sherlock will always occupy a part of your heart. I'm just glad I'm the one who gets the other part._

> _I see it sometimes, when you think I'm not looking. You get the funny crease above your nose that means you're fretting about something. I know you, John Hamish Watson. I can almost hear the wheels turning in that head of yours._

> _So let me say something now I hope will be no surprise to you at all by the time you are reading this: I understand._

> _I understand that you miss the danger. I hope you find something during our years together that gives you the same exhilaration. You know I won't begrudge you. I know what I'm getting into. I have agreed to marry a decorated veteran of the medical corps. I said 'Yes' to a man who chased criminals through the streets of London for two years._

> _I am not some passive Victorian housewife sitting in the parlour with my needlework, wondering when you are coming home. I've been on my own for a long time, you know, and I've seen my fair share of excitement. But you are the first man I've dated who hasn't asked me to quit my job because of it. How could I do any less?_

> _And sometimes my students will need me more than you do. I know you won't resent me for that._

> _I like to think that had Sherlock lived, had you and I met under different circumstances, I would not have stood in the way of you continuing your work with him. Of course, I might have insisted on chaperoning out-of-town cases. (I'm kidding, of course. Well, mostly.)_

> _What I'm trying to say is I hope you come to realize during our marriage that if I want you to come home, I'll tell you. If I'm jealous or feeling left out, I'll let you know. If I want to come with you, I'll ask._

> _So I hope you can smile at this, having lived a life full of adventure — a life you happened to have shared with me._

> _I also understand that you worry about disappointing me. I feel it in your kiss, sometimes. In the way you hold me as though you're afraid I might break. Again, I hope by the time this letter is brought out those fears have long since been put to rest. You could never disappoint me. The love you have for me is all I've ever wanted._

> _Just this and just this way._

> _Molly's just popped her head in to remind me I need to get some sleep. I didn't realize it was so late._

>   
>  _You are a good, good man, John. The bravest and best I have ever known. I love you, no matter what._   
>  _Mary_   
> 

Ella folded the letter again. She was always so cool, so detached; John was startled when she reached down and pulled a tissue from the box. She dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose.

"Sorry, I," Ella began. "I'm sorry. I don't usually allow myself to…never mind." She waved a hand to dismiss her brief lapse. "John, how does this letter make you feel?"

"Feel?" John pondered. "I dunno really. Sad, first, because she was an amazing woman and I loved her and I miss her. Then sort of light, I guess."

"A burden has been lifted?"

"Yeah, yeah," John nodded. "Something like that. It's as if she's forgiven me, in a way."

"Forgiven you for what?"

"What we talked about before. You know, feeling like I cheated her by not loving her the way..."

"The way you love Sherlock."

"Yup." John bit down on that. There was so much buzzing through his system this morning. He'd cried when he'd read the letter, and then fallen into the deepest and most peaceful sleep he'd had in three years. When he woke he felt alive and free. And lonely.

"It's been almost five months, John. Have you spoken with him?"

"A little. Texts, really. You know."

"And what have you said?"

"Not much. He just sends me a few words now and again to ask how I am. I tell him I'm fine. That's all."

"I sense something has changed, though. Before this —" She indicated the letter on the table between them. "You could not imagine seeing him again or being part of his life. You didn't think that would ever be possible."

"Right. Too much...stuff...there. I was so angry, so hurt."

"And guilty."

"God, yes," John exhaled. "I was afraid if I saw him, all I would see is Mary's face." He dropped his gaze to his hands. "I wasn't sure I could forgive him because I didn't think I could forgive myself."

"And now?"

John looked out at the rain again. His heart pounding in his ears. What now?

"John?"

"Dunno," he replied simply. "I really don't."

"But you want to see him."

"Yes."

"And you want to be part of his life again?"

"I think so. Maybe."

Ella put her pen down. "So, John, what are you going to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Someone You'd Admire - Fleet Foxes


	13. Sigh No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is made new.

Sherlock hunched over his laptop, scanning through the post mortem results Lestrade had just sent to him. He sighed. For god's sake, couldn't they see?

He snatched his phone off the desk.

> _Fish bone found in tonsil. Arrest son SH_

His phone buzzed immediately:

> _WTF?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dropping his phone where he'd found it. He'd give them a few minutes to try and work their way around to it. If he didn't hear from Lest — Greg — by then, he'd explain.

He supposed he would have to remember to call the DI by his first name now, as he would soon be standing up for him at his wedding to Molly Hooper.

How he’d been roped into it, he still wasn’t certain. He had refused. Very firmly. Emphatically. Several times. But Greg was persistent and Molly…even Sherlock could not deny his indebtedness to her. This ill-advised favour was the only thing she'd ever asked of him. He was doing his best to cope, but honestly: a wedding? A stag night? _Really_ not his area.

If Greg insisted on inviting Anderson, Sherlock would not be held responsible for the consequences.

He snapped the laptop shut and stood, climbing over and then flopping down into his chair. He pulled his red dressing gown around him, covering his charcoal trousers and matching button-down shirt. He'd gotten used to having only his second-best dressing gown, but he'd been so comfortable with his favourite navy one. He was still a little put out that he had not been able to find it among his things. Like his skull, though that was proving much harder to replace. He had purchased a new one, but it simply wasn’t the same — Mrs. Hudson had put it somewhere while dusting and he hadn’t been bothered to retrieve it.

He curled his bare toes under. It was chilly today. Was the heating on?

He turned to look at the radiator behind him. It was leaning away from the wall at a precarious angle with a pile of towels bunched up underneath where the puddle most certainly had been. Right. Effects of steam and pressure on necrotic flesh.

That would explain Mrs. Hudson's glare when she brought the post this morning.

He fidgeted and drummed his fingers on the chair arms. God, he needed something to do.

He'd been working incessantly since...it happened. Constant occupation was no longer a matter of relieving boredom, but of survival.

Living without John while he was hunting Moran had been different. He had been able to convince himself that their life would continue as it had before, once the threat was neutralized. He had accepted that John would be angry, hurt. He'd been prepared to spend some time regaining John's trust. But he had never doubted it would happen. He had even dared to hope that perhaps, in time, John's fondness for him might have developed into something more. Had he known John's true feelings…but it did not pay to speculate. He hadn't known. And now it was too late.

Now that so much damage had been done, it was like living with a missing limb. A constant ache where something had once been and would never be again. He could not divorce himself from these feelings no matter how hard he tried. This attachment was the one puzzle Sherlock Holmes could not solve.

It had driven him very close to using again, more than once, but Mycroft had intervened. As much as he despised his brother's interference generally, he was grateful. Using would have cost him his work, and it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Lestrade had kept him busy and his brother had even indulged him with a diplomatically sensitive case in the Middle East. He'd been happy to take anything they offered and slept only when it was absolutely necessary. He was desperate to avoid inactivity. He simply couldn't be idle. Not now.

He twitched again. Cigarette.

Sherlock stood and plucked the pack off the mantle. He would have put them under his skull, had it been there. It was the last place John had hidden them; he wasn't inclined to put them elsewhere.

He froze, the unlit cigarette half-way to his lips. There was someone at the door downstairs. Not knocking. Someone with a key. Mycroft had acquired one, of course — but no. He was in Geneva. Mrs. Hudson hadn't gone out...

His breath left his lungs in a whoosh. He stared at the door as he listened to the footsteps on the stairs.

Not just any footsteps.

The door to the lounge protested as it was pushed wide. John stood just outside holding a cardboard box. His sandy hair, tinged with a bit more grey than Sherlock remembered, was longer (why did that please him so much?) and damp from the rain. He was wearing khaki trousers and a new shirt with his favourite old black jacket instead of jeans. Clearly he'd taken the bus from his therapist's office, but he'd missed the 1:15.

John paused in the doorway, scanning the room. He met Sherlock's stare and nodded, taking a few tentative steps inside. He set the box down on the floor.

"I see you've done some redecorating."

Sherlock glanced around, trying to see the room as John would  —  as someone who had not seen it in months. There were bullet holes in the wall again (in spite of Mrs. Hudson's new wallpaper) through a photo of Mycroft he'd tacked there after the last time he'd found a camera behind the light in the toilet. Honestly. Even if he were planning to use, he'd hardly do it in there, like some guilty teenager.

There was the radiator, of course. And he hadn't bothered to put any books away, nor had he done anything with the ceremonial swords he'd acquired in Qatar last month. There was a selection of right hands in a row of jars on the coffee table and a stuffed armadillo in front of the television. The mirror above the fireplace had a large crack (experiment with a slingshot, only moderately successful). The sofa bore the very Sherlock-shaped imprint of having been slept on regularly, when he slept at all. Mercifully, Mrs. Hudson had removed the remnants of what little he'd eaten recently. He knew how John hated crumbs.

John watched Sherlock's brow furrow as he looked around the flat.

"Ah, yes. Well, I haven't really had time to straighten up. And you know how Mrs. Hudson is about my experiments —" He dropped the unlit cigarette and darted across to the nearest heap of reading material and started rearranging. He grabbed a stack of books and turned, looking left and right as though he couldn't quite make out where to take them to.

"Sherlock."

He stopped and looked at John.

"Put them down."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. If John wasn't concerned about the state of the flat, it didn't bode well. He set the books back on their original pile solemnly and began studying the pattern in the carpet.

"I'm glad you've come, John."

"Are you? You don't look it. You look like someone's just flushed your fags."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "No, I — it's just that I thought you didn't want to —"

John nodded, understanding. He closed the door behind him. "I thought I didn't want to come back here, too."

"I see."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't."

"You thought I didn't want to come back here because I never wanted to see you again."

Sherlock cleared his throat. When did his mouth get so dry? Chemical defect. He was defective.

"I thought I didn't want to come back here because if I did, I'd never want to leave again."

Sherlock's lips twitched, his eyes wide.

"Ah, you're catching on now," John chuckled.

Sherlock twisted the edge of his dressing gown, not quite sure what to do with his hands.

"I needed some time to work things out," John said, taking a few steps forward. "It was an awful lot to think through."

"Of course."

They stood regarding each other. John knew Sherlock was deducing him. He stood very still and let the detective's eyes dart from the part in his hair down to the mud on his shoes. Undoubtedly, he could tell him what was in Mary's letter, which he would have noticed in the pocket of John's jacket.

But Sherlock didn't look satisfied. Or smug. Not the way he usually did when he'd thoroughly worked something out. John felt a twinge of surprise, and not just a little bit of pleasure.

"I was wondering: did you ever figure out why I didn't...you know...after you died?"

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up and he shook his head.

"You know I thought about it when I got home from Afghanistan." Sherlock nodded. "I couldn't adjust to the stillness of everyday life. I was tormented by nightmares. Honestly, I thought they would give me a heart attack before I got around to the pistol." He took another step forward. "I felt, I don't know, wrong, I guess. Like this deranged creature that couldn't be satisfied living like a normal person. I was going through the motions, but I knew something was missing. Your brother recognized it the first time we met. I needed the head rush."

"Then you came along. You scattered, brilliant, annoying, amazing, sometimes insufferable lunatic." John smiled. "Suddenly I didn't feel like such a _freak_. I'd found someone who was an even bigger adrenaline junkie than I was. You made me feel normal. You made me feel alive."

Sherlock was stunned, silent.

"And I loved you for it."

"Oh," Sherlock whispered.

John pursed his lips. "And then you died."

"Oh," Sherlock muttered. He wanted to look away from John's penetrating gaze, but he couldn't. He'd never been so paralyzed by biology in his life. His body was betraying him in ways he simply had never experienced: his palms were sweaty, his legs were shaking (shaking?) and his heart felt like it was trying to leave his body through his mouth. But somehow weakness had never felt so incredibly...powerful.

"I ached for a long time," John started, taking another step forward. He was within arm’s reach now. "Then I felt nothing. I was empty, like someone had squeezed all the life right out of me."

"John, I —"

"It would have been easy to just give up, but I didn't. Do you know why?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You lied to me."

Sherlock's brows drew together.

"On the ledge. You told me you were a fake; that I shouldn't believe you could really have done all the amazing things I'd seen since we met."

Sherlock started to speak, but John held up his hand.

"I knew _that_ was the lie. Never doubted it for a second. But the fact that you wanted it to be the last thing I remembered, well, it meant you cared enough about me to want me to be able to forget you. That you wanted me to be able to move on after you were gone. You wanted me to have a life, so I did."

Sherlock did not often cry. He could produce tears, of course, if the situation required it. Generally, though, he didn't weep of his own accord. But by god, since he'd met John Watson, he turned into a leaking faucet. He could feel the lump forming in his throat and the sting behind his eyes.

John looked down now. "I didn't give up because I believed you loved me. Maybe not the way I love you…"

"Yes."

John started at the emphatic outburst. So did Sherlock.

"What's that?"

"I — did. I — do."

John allowed it to sink in. His head cocked to one side. "Anyway, that's it."

Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding. "Mary..."

"I loved Mary. I always will. She filled me back up again when I thought I would live out my life as a shell. She was an amazing woman and I would have been happy spending my life with her." John edged closer. The tips of his shoes were almost touching Sherlock's bare toes. The taller man was looking down at him now. "I couldn't live with myself because I felt I had cheated her, betrayed her."

John reached out and took one of Sherlock's long-fingered hands into his own.

"But I was wrong. She knew. She knew how I felt about you and she loved me anyway." John sighed. "Her death is not your fault, Sherlock, or mine. Moran, Moriarty: they are responsible."

"I'm sorry." A tear slipped free of one of the silvery blue-green eyes and slipped down Sherlock's cheek. John nodded. He reached up and brushed the tear away, his fingers lingering on the pale cheek.

"I can't lose this, Sherlock. Not again."

"John…"

"I want to come home."

Sherlock swallowed, trying to rationalize the cacophony in his body and his mind. He didn't know how to deal with so much sensation. He wanted John with him so badly he could hardly breathe, but Mycroft was right. This was not his long suit.

"I don't know how to do this."

John nodded, allowing his hand to trace a soft path across the razor-like cheekbone to slide back and down into the nape of Sherlock's neck. His soft eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled that gentle, reassuring John smile. He burrowed his hand in the dark curls. "S'okay. We'll sort it together."

John's hand continued the gentle massage against Sherlock's scalp.

"Sherlock?" John was seeking permission to continue.

Sherlock blinked, nodding. He felt John's other arm winding around his waist, the strong hand splaying out over his lower back, rubbing in small circles. John drew him closer until they were touching. Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat against his ribs and he curled toward the comforting rhythm. With aching slowness, John drew Sherlock down.

Sherlock's eyes were still wide open as their lips touched for the first time. So much softer than he expected. John was cautious, tasting tentatively. He nibbled on Sherlock's full bottom lip, gently increasing pressure as he slanted his own lips across the beautiful mouth.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, one hand bouncing off John's waist to slide up over his ribs, briefly squeezing the strong shoulder before finding a home against John's face. His other arm mirrored John's, wrapping around his soldier's waist.

"Mmmmm...no —" Sherlock protested as John drew back. He looked into John's eyes, bewildered and feeling truly vulnerable for the first time in his life. "I love you," he blurted finally. 

"I know." John drew Sherlock down again to place an affectionate kiss on the pale brow. "I love you, too, you idiot," he murmured against his skin, trailing soft kisses down over Sherlock's lovely eyes and over each now-flushed cheek.

"Why?" Sherlock whispered.

"Because you are fascinating," John said, his lips leaving Sherlock's face to continue exploring down the length of the smooth column of his neck. "And noble, whether you believe it or not." His tongue lapped at the heated flesh. "And funny. Not always intentionally, mind." He nipped at the soft skin above Sherlock's throbbing pulse. "SO sexy." He opened his mouth over the sensitive spot and began to suck.

Sherlock's knees began to buckle, something hot and very insistent beginning to pool in the pit of his abdomen. "John, please."

The throaty deep voice vibrated against John's tongue and he moaned. He released his claim and lifted his head, his heavy-lidded eyes regarding Sherlock. "And not just a little bit scary."

Sherlock searched John's face. "And that's...good?"

"For me?" John dropped his gaze to fixate on the sweet curve of Sherlock's mouth. "It's very." He inched closer. "Very." He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Good."

Sherlock could feel his breath coming in shallow pants as he lowered his head. He tilted his head as John had done and captured John's lips. The first kiss had been gentle; the second was searing. John traced the shape of the perfect cupid's bow with the tip of his tongue, then traced the entrance to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock opened with a gasp, his hand sliding and fisting into John's sandy hair.

John groaned into his mouth and the kiss became hotter, wetter. More demanding. Sparks ignited behind Sherlock's eyes as John's tongue touched his own. He pulled their bodies together from chest to pelvis, both bending his own lean frame and dragging John up on to his tip toes to accommodate their height difference. He could feel his own arousal pressing insistently against his tight trousers; he felt John's, too, against his thigh. He moaned, feeling dizzy as John began wantonly sucking on his tongue.

"Oh!"

Sherlock eyes snapped open at the sharp intake of breath. Reluctantly, he released John's lips and regarded Mrs. Hudson standing in their kitchen holding a tray of custard tarts. Her mouth was hanging open and the tarts were in grave danger of sliding off onto the floor.

John pulled back. "What?" He followed Sherlock's gaze and turned, spotting the problem immediately. "Oh, wait," he said, crossing swiftly to relieve the poor woman of her baking. He set it down on the table behind them and smiled down at her, looking only a little bit sheepish. She was taking him in now, raising a freckled hand to his cheek.

"Oh, John," she said, her voice trembling. "You're back!" Her eyes crinkled with pure, unadulterated joy and she wrapped her arms around him.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, his eyes meeting John's over their landlady's head. He couldn't help himself — he was grinning like an idiot. Probably would be for days.

His phone buzzed and he stepped to the desk to retrieve it:

> _Congratulations  
>  MH_

> _Insufferable bastard. All cameras out immediately  
>  SH_

> _Of course  
>  MH_

"— and I'm just so glad you're here. We've missed you terribly, haven't we, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson was saying to John. She'd finally released him and was now only clutching at his forearm as John chuckled. "What am I saying? Obviously Sherlock has missed you much more than I have!"

She winked at Sherlock and he could feel the blush rising to his cheeks. Must learn to control that.

He turned away quickly and swung around to sit at his desk. He flipped the laptop back open and pretended to be checking his email. His phone buzzed again.

He half listened as Mrs. Hudson regaled John with tales of the terrifying things she'd found in the fridge while he was gone. He sighed, checking his messages. Four new from Greg:

> _Fish bone means what?_

> _Can't arrest him without a motive_

> _Where the hell r u_

> _Is john there?_

Sherlock smirked, feeling very satisfied. He began his reply about fish bones and the special at Antoine's the Friday before, wondering idly if he should tell Greg now or wait until the stag night — if the evening wasn't already a complete fiasco, snogging John in front of Anderson and the others in the middle of the pub crawl should just about do it.

"Anyone for a cuppa?" John's voice was bright and familiar as he stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The sound filled Sherlock with a startling feeling of contentment. He looked up once more and found John's eyes resting on him.

"Please." The smile between them was lingering, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't resist a giggle.

"You two..." she cooed.

John grinned, looking from one to the other. "I'll just put the kettle on, then, shall I?"

____

John sighed, feeling incredibly replete. He poured himself another cup of tea and settled back into the corner of the sofa facing the window. It was still raining but he thought it was the most beautiful day he'd ever seen.

The visit with Mrs. H had been lovely. Like old times, only better. Still, John had been well aware that Sherlock was anxious for them to be alone. He was pretty sure Mrs. Hudson had known, too. Silly git had sat in his chair practically vibrating. He'd kept checking his watch and shooting John pleading looks. After thirty minutes had passed, his patience had finally evaporated and he'd hustled their landlady to the door.

John knew he should feel a little guilty about that, but he'd worry about apologizing to Mrs. H tomorrow. Right now, all he could think about was the man who'd disappeared through the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

"Coming."

Sherlock strode back into the room, in the process of pulling his red dressing gown back on over his thin jersey pyjamas. His dark curls were in charming disarray.

"Not going out again, then?" John teased.

Sherlock ignored him, clearly too absorbed with whatever was rattling around inside his head.

John watched him approach, moved again by grace of his lean frame. He throat constricted a little, thinking of how long he'd had to live without the pleasure of that particular view.

"I like the red one," he said cheerfully. "Maybe you won't want the navy one back now?"

Sherlock stopped dead beside the cardboard box on the floor, eyes narrowed down at it.

"Yes, it's in there." John grinned and took a sip of tea.

Sherlock turned and tore the box open. He pulled the old blue robe out and shook it, quickly shedding the red one and letting it drop to the floor. He pulled the old robe on and wrapped it tight.

"Better?" John teased.

Sherlock smirked. "Much."

He stepped toward the sofa and stopped at John's side looking down at him with a furrowed brow. _He doesn't know what to do, bless him,_ John thought. He reached out past him, grazing the narrow hip, and placed his cup back on the coffee table. He held the hand out to Sherlock in invitation.

The side of the detective's mouth curled up. He looked pleased, if somewhat self-satisfied. He took John's hand, carefully assessing John's position. He slid onto the sofa, stretching out like a cat. He shifted twice, looking for a better angle, finally wedging his bottom up against John's hip and leaning back into his chest. He sat quietly for a second before shifting again. He looked left and then right. He took the arm John had stretched over the back of the sofa and tried wrapping it around his shoulders. This seemed to satisfy him. He relaxed into John's body and held onto his arm.

"Comfy?" John asked softly. He couldn't resist resting his cheek against the tousled curls.

"Yes, thank you."

“Wait, what is…” John slid his hand back from Sherlock’s shoulder. He ran his palm over the metal plates lying just beneath the thin cotton in the centre of Sherlock’s chest. His missing dog tags. “Oh.”

“I just…I wanted something of yours, too,” Sherlock said softly.

John closed his eyes against the ache in his chest, thinking of Sherlock wearing his dog tags all this time; having to watch from a distance while he fell in love with and married someone else. “I’m glad you had them.”

He slid his hand back across Sherlock’s chest to his shoulder, holding the taller man tightly against him. Sherlock rubbed John's forearm and John revelled in the simple touch.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Was that my skull I saw?"

"It was."

"Excellent." There was a long pause. John prepared himself for what might come next. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" he repeated, chuckling.

"When?"

"Sorry?"

"When did you know? How did you come to realize you had these feelings for me?"

"Ah, well, that is a complicated question."

"Is it? Yes, I suppose it is. I know you are not, in general, attracted to men."

"True."

"I see. So you have a very specific, situational bisexuality."

"So it would seem," John agreed. "You needn't sound quite so smug."

"Was I?"

"You were."

"Well, it is rather flattering to discover that you are the one exception to someone's rule," Sherlock said. "But when did you discover this very specific attraction? We were good friends and colleagues for some time —"

"Dartmoor."

"Really? I thought you were quite irritated with me."

"I was. Can you blame me?"

Sherlock was silent. John waited for the gears to click into place. "It was wrong of me to use you in my experiment."

"As I believe I mentioned at the time."

"But it was incredibly valuable to the case, John. You know that."

John sighed. And such would be life with Sherlock Holmes.

"Maybe," he conceded. "But you will try to avoid doing anything like that to me again, won't you." It was not a question.

There was a long pause. "But if it should be absolutely necessary..."

"But you will _try_."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, satisfied. "I will make every effort not to experiment on you in the future. At least, not without your permission."

"Thanks," John chuckled again.

"Why Dartmoor?"

John paused. "It had been eating away at me since The Woman."

"I see." Sherlock suddenly went very still.

"At the power station, when she said we were a couple, whether I was gay or not," John shrugged. "I couldn't shake it. At the pub in Grimpen village, when they assumed we were together, I couldn't find the words to deny it. It occurred to me, finally, that I didn't want to. I started to realize Irene Adler was right: I'd fallen in love with my best friend. And suddenly, I got a picture in my head of us together, in one of those boutique double rooms. I couldn't stop thinking about kissing you. And, well, that was it, really."

"Cheekbones!"

"Yes," John conceded with a wry smile.

"I knew that was significant in some way. Why would you mention my bone structure at Baskerville? The collar thing I could understand, but why my face?"

"I was really worried I had given myself away. Surprised you missed it, actually. You always seem to know what I'm thinking."

"But this sort of thing really isn't…"

"I know, I know. Not your area."

"Hmmmmm." Sherlock was stroking John's arm again.

"That feels lovely," John said.

"What, this?" Sherlock ran his fingers through the soft blonde hair on John's arm.

"Yes, but no, I meant your voice. It goes right through you and into me. I like it.” He allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. "What about you, then?"

"What about me, what?"

"Don't play dumb. It's beneath you. When?"

"On the ledge."

John felt a sharp pang remembering that day, looking up from the street in front of Bart's. "How so?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I had determined what Moriarty's end game would be. I'd prepared for it. I expected he would have some kind of _motivation_ for me to go through with his plan. I quite rightly assumed it would have something to do with you."

John's arm tightened involuntarily. "And?"

"I sat in the lab, waiting for you. Molly had pointed out to me earlier that I had been shielding you from my concerns about the case." Sherlock rested his head back onto John's shoulder. "I began to realize then what my feelings for you had become. I knew I was physically attracted to you and that I felt companionship for you, but this was so much more. I could not imagine my life without you in it. You had become necessary to me."

"But he threatened Mrs. Hudson and Greg, too."

"Moriarty's way of escalating; making it impossible for me to calculate the odds with so many important variables," Sherlock mused. "He knew how vulnerable I was where you were concerned. But he'd also seen — at the pool — that you and I were prepared to die together, if need be, and you trusted me to make the call. There was always a possibility that I might have been able to find another solution, knowing you trusted me enough to make the decision for both of us."

"I do trust you," John sighed. "Should probably seek some help for that, as well."

Sherlock hrrmphed, then grew quiet for a moment. "He'd seen it. Right from the outset. Called you my pet, but he knew. He knew."

John placed a tentative kiss against the dark head. He waited to see what Sherlock would do, but the tall man merely leaned into him. John sighed, wrapping his other arm around and tucking it under Sherlock's, his palm flat against the taller man's chest. Sherlock regarded this change and then laced his fingers with John's over his heart.

"When Molly and I had established a course of action, there was nothing left to do but wait for the final move." Sherlock squirmed. "I was not comfortable. I couldn't concentrate on the problem. I was overlooking something and I knew it, but all I could think about was you."

John waited.

"Ultimately, my distraction caused me to miss something important."

"What?"

"The code. It never existed."

John was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I wouldn't like to think I was a distraction or a stumbling block."

"It wasn't loving you that distracted me, it was not being able to tell you."

"So…"

"Won't happen again," Sherlock assured him. "Then I was standing on the ledge, looking down at you and I fell apart."

"But you knew you weren't really going to die."

"There was still a margin for error, if the wind velocity changed. And the lorry was a few minutes late." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Still, I'd imagined that I would have to affect the tears of a man about to take his own life. But they were real. I didn't want to die. More than that, I didn't want to die without touching you once more."

"God, Sherlock."

"I know. The physiological impulses generated by these feelings are far more powerful than I would have thought."

"Not exactly what I meant, but I guess that will do," John conceded softly, nuzzling the soft dark hair affectionately. "Just one more question, and don't pretend you don't know what I'm going to ask. I felt your response when I mentioned her."

"The Woman," Sherlock sighed.

"She isn't dead, is she?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock?"

"John, I assure you, you have nothing to worry about. Irene Adler disconcerted me, but I was merely an experiment. I was a useful — and, I suppose, a surprisingly enjoyable — means to an end."

"But I thought she…that you were attracted to her. That you cared for her."

"When it was over, I realized I had responded to her manipulations as she intended I should only because I had begun to feel something for you. You see, John, I had begun to feel physical attraction for you."

"I thought so."

"Now who's sounding smug?"

"Sorry. Go on."

"But you were still dating women."

"When you didn't go out of your way to bugger it up."

"This would go much more quickly if you would stop interrupting."

"All right, all right."

"You were still dating women and I didn't think I wanted, well, anything other than what we already had. But Irene recognized my weakness: I'd started to want, and not having made me lonely." Sherlock shrugged. "So you see, you owe her your thanks. By exploiting my weakness, she made me aware of it."

"She didn't break your heart."

"She could not break something she'd never had."

"Oh." John hugged that thought to himself. "But you went to Pakistan. You saved her life and helped her disappear. Mycroft did say you were the only one who could have managed it."

"She makes her way in the world by misbehaving. So do I, to some extent. Call it professional courtesy.”

It was John's turn to hrrmmph.

"She has proved useful over the last three years," Sherlock continued. "She hid me in Paris and she saved my life in Kiev."

“Remind me to send her a fruit basket at Christmas, then."

"John, John…whatever there was between Irene and I was, in its essence, purely intellectual: two keen, if unusual, minds recognizing and appreciating one another. Or rather, one exceptional mind and one moderately above-average one."

"You humility is touching."

Sherlock squeezed the hand over his heart. "Irene is as much attached to her female companion as I am to you."

"Good." John's voice was firm. "So no more of her, then."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up. "Is that an order, captain?"

"Mhmmm." John nuzzled Sherlock's neck. Sherlock started to analyze his response to this new intimacy, but only for a moment before closing his eyes and allowing himself to revel in the touch of John's lips against his skin.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"What do we do now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sigh No More - Mumford & Sons


	14. Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows they should take it slow. Sherlock is unconvinced.

John moved back in stages, bringing one box at a time. The skull returned to the mantle and the Union Jack pillow to the sofa. His clothes returned to the wardrobe in his room upstairs. Food began to take up more space in the refrigerator and there was a discussion about the botulism samples in the crisper.

John resigned his post at St. Thomas and accepted a part-time position at St. John's Wood Medical Practice. The Met and a few private clients kept them busy the rest of the time.

Greg was clearly delighted to have John back. Between his officers threatening a mutiny every time Sherlock showed up at a crime scene and Sherlock terrifying Molly's parents at the engagement party, Greg had run to the end of his John-free Sherlock Holmes management skills.

In many ways, it was as it had ever been: John and Sherlock worked together, they argued over who was to get milk, Sherlock talked to John when John wasn't at home and Mycroft made a nuisance of himself. John was still annoyed with him for his part in Sherlock's "hiatus", but once Sherlock told him about the gesture with the flat he decided he could be polite.

The one major difference in their lives now was that when they did go to their favourite tapas place, John didn't mind it when Angelo brought over the candle. In fact, he quite liked reaching across the table to take Sherlock's hand, watching the light flickering over their intertwined fingers. John knew Sherlock liked it, too — his mouth would always curl into that funny half-grin, even if he had his phone in his other hand so he could read a text from Greg.

They were dating, just like any other normal couple. Well, relatively normal. Most couples probably didn't go for Chinese after viewing a corpse. Still, they took long walks through the city. They spent quiet nights at home on the sofa, John watching the telly and Sherlock reading something curled up against him (looking up only occasionally and only long enough to snort in derision). They went to the cinema (all of the films Sherlock declared "Boring", but he went and sat with his arm around John all the same). And Sherlock took him to the symphony. John didn't expect to like it, but watching the almost sensual pleasure that passed over Sherlock's face more than made up for what he didn't understand about the music.

It felt good and it felt right.

Still John had to be practical. Sherlock had never been in a real relationship before. And he himself was still grieving for Mary. The ache had become less acute, but was there nevertheless. He knew this wasn't a good time for either of them to give in to the desire they were both clearly feeling.

And John was under no illusions. He knew they were in a grace period. He realized how hard Sherlock was trying not to be, well, _Sherlock_. He contained his experiments and kept his hands off John's laptop. He refrained from playing the violin at half three in the morning. He wasn't always communicative, but he tried (at least he rarely pitched a fit when John tried to engage him in conversation). He was trying to be polite to Greg and was making an effort not to antagonize the new DS (Donovan had put in for a transfer). He was even pleasant to clients. Mostly. At least he allowed John to smooth things over without making a fuss.

No, John knew Sherlock — for real — and he knew it wasn't going to last. And he didn't really want it to: he had fallen in love with Sherlock exactly as he was. He just wanted to be sure he knew exactly where they stood before Sherlock had a major episode. And _well_ before he discovered the highly addictive nature of post-orgasmic brain chemistry.

So they spent the first weeks treading carefully around each other, not quite sure how much to assume and what was okay. Soon enough, though, he learned that it was okay to kiss Sherlock good morning, and to kiss him when he came home from a shift at St. John’s. And to kiss the top of his head when he passed him working on one of his experiments at the kitchen table. It was okay to ask Sherlock to tell him what he was thinking. And it was okay if he reminded Sherlock how important that was when he forgot.

Sherlock, for his part, soon learned that it was okay to plaster himself up against John's back as he stood in the kitchen in his boxers waiting for the kettle to boil and wrap both long arms around him. And that it was okay to sneak into John's room and lay down on the bed beside him, watching him as he woke up. And that it was okay if they rarely touched or said much of anything that wasn’t work-related during a case.

He also learned just how susceptible John was to the sound of his voice: saying John's name, reciting his deductions, mocking Anderson, calling for Mrs. Hudson. It didn't seem to matter. And Sherlock quickly discovered that when he dropped to his lowest register, John would duck his head to conceal a small, private smile and just a little bit of a blush.

Most importantly, he'd learned that John truly was the most patient man he'd ever known.

Sherlock knew that John was well aware of his efforts to be on his best behaviour. It wasn't that he believed John wanted him to change; he knew better than that. It was just that he wanted as little discord between them as possible, for as long as possible. John had been through too much, had been _put_ through too much. Sherlock had been given to understand (Greg had explained it very carefully) that a man of such deep feeling needed time to recover. To heal. Sherlock was doing his best to give him that.

Sherlock did slip, though. But even when he was short with Mrs. Hudson, even when he chose to forget about his promise not to put anything really disgusting in the kitchen sink, even when he left the flat without saying a word, John didn't leave. And he rarely shouted.

That left the sex. Or lack thereof.

Sherlock wanted so badly to be able to demonstrate to John exactly how much he meant to him. He needed to be closer to him, to be as physically connected to him as he was in every other way. Sherlock had spent the better part of his adulthood believing he was immune to desire. However he had discovered, now the embers had been coaxed to life, the fire was building towards a conflagration.

He could still control it, for the most part. A lifetime of learning to ignore his body's demands was proving to be useful. When they were busy with a case, he was too distracted to think about it much, anyway. But when they weren’t working, it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself.

If his sensitive, passionate John were feeling even half of this heat (and he was certain that was the case, given the length of his showers recently), then the man was a saint.

He was sorely tempted to push for what he wanted, but he was learning that being in a relationship meant he had to try to respect John's wishes. So he would allow John to drive this particular bus. For as long as he possibly could.

Four months passed this way. They worked, and became reacquainted with each other, and learned about the new facets each of them had developed during their time apart. They slept in separate rooms and explored what it meant to be together in every sense of the word but one.

It was a good plan; full of sensible precautions. But as with many good plans, it had all gone to cock.

A few days before, Lestrade had called them out to a crime scene at 2 a.m. It was a particularly perplexing case and Sherlock had been almost giddy. It had taken all of John's considerable diplomacy to keep the new DS from filing a complaint. And he was pretty sure the press had managed to get a shot of him pinning Anderson's arms to keep him from punching Sherlock as they left.

Now they were sitting in a pub (which Sherlock _hated_ ) outside a youth hostel Sherlock had located through a series of obscure and seemingly unconnected clues.

"You're sure this is the place, that she was here the night she was killed," John said. It wasn't really a question.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively. "The receipt from the flower shop, the traces of limestone, the blue paint from the building site...isn't it obvious?"

John merely smiled into his pint. He didn't get to enjoy it long, though. Minutes later, Sherlock stood abruptly.

"There, John. There — hurry!"

Sherlock ran for the door, John right behind him. Across the street from the pub, a young man was in the process of unlocking the after-hours entrance to the hostel. The large bag he carried, slung over his shoulder, looked heavy and he was too busy adjusting it to notice Sherlock’s approach. The bag slipped off his shoulder as Sherlock cleared the halfway point in the street — he glanced down to catch it and saw the threat. He bolted.

The chase was on. John was only a few steps behind Sherlock, and only because he’d had the sense to text Lestrade. He knew Sherlock would never admit it, but it was much easier on everyone if Greg was kept in the loop.

Their suspect was not creative — he stuck primarily to main streets — but he was young and fast. He diverted through several large crowds, and after an incident with a group of Japanese tourists in St. Paul’s Churchyard, and an over-zealous PC near Festival Gardens, they'd lost him. Sherlock was frustrated and so distracted trying to deduce which way the suspect might have gone that he stepped out onto New Change. He didn't see the bus until it was almost too late.

"Sherlock!" John shouted his name as he dove at him. They landed in a heap on the pavement. Sherlock was pinned under John, his hands pressed firmly to John's chest and his legs pinned between John's thighs.

"Are you all right?" John panted, his lips _thisclose_ to Sherlock’s. "Jes — you scared the hell out of me! You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock nodded mutely. John’s hands began drifting over Sherlock’s limbs and then his torso — a quick inventory to search for injury.

“John, just stop. Please.”

John hesitated but said nothing. He stood and offered his hand to help him up. Sherlock took it and stood, then backed away.

John's brow furrowed. "What is it? Maybe I should just take a look at the back of your head —”

Sherlock retreated. "I'm fine, John. No need to fuss."

John flinched a little at that, but nodded. They walked slowly back out to Cannon Street to hail a cab.

Sherlock didn't speak again on the ride back to 221B. He sat pressed up against the far door of the cab, legs crossed away from John, texting Greg. John was puzzled, but he was still riding the effects of the adrenaline coursing through his system. And he was still feeling pretty buzzed when they got back to the flat.

Upstairs, John bypassed the kettle and instead grabbed a can out of the fridge. He flopped into his chair, relishing the feeling. "I still can't believe how much I missed this."

Sherlock was pacing in front of the mantle, one arm crossed over his chest, the other elbow propped on top of it.

"So, what do you reckon?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock turned to face him.

"Was that the guy? Did he do it?"

Sherlock continued peering at John.

"Sherlock, that look you're doing? It's a bit off-putting. You're looking at me the way a fat man looks at chocolate eclairs. What —”

John studied the man he loved for a moment: he was clearly worked up, pupils dilated, heart rate accelerated, heightened colour in his face. Adrenaline high, or…John let his gaze drift a little bit lower.

"Ohhh."

Sherlock didn't bother to reply, instead dropping to his knees in front of John's chair. He slid in between John's thighs, pushing them wide to get as close as possible and leaned in to capture John's mouth. John dropped his can to the floor without hesitation and buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling him in and kissing him hard and deep. The kiss was desperate, demanding and possessive — tongues thrusting, a collision of teeth. Sherlock braced his hands on John's chest and pushed himself away with a groan.

Sherlock reached for John's fly. John opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. He watched, his eyes glazed with long-delayed lust, as the elegant fingers worked his trousers open and reached inside his pants to release him. Sherlock nudged gently and John obliged, lifting his hips slightly to allow his clothing to be tugged down his hips.

John had spent many nights dreaming about what sex with Sherlock would have been like, when he thought he'd missed his chance. And for the past few months, he'd visualized something very much like this nearly every morning in the shower as he took himself in hand. It was almost too much; he couldn't believe it was actually happening.

Sherlock's hand wrapped around his now-throbbing erection and began to stroke. "John." The voice was so deep John could feel it resonating through his body.

John moaned, meeting his lover's eyes briefly before Sherlock swirled his tongue around the tip of his cock and then sucked it into his hot mouth. "FUCK!" John bucked off the chair. Sherlock slid his free hand under John's shirt and spread over the warm abdomen, pushing John back down and holding him in place, intent on his work.

John's brain short-circuited as Sherlock's mouth slid down his length to where his hand had a firm grip on him at the root. His tongue swirled in circles along the underside as he pulled back, flicking at the tip and delving into the slit before sliding back down again. John moaned, his hand smoothing over his lover's dark head.

"Sherlock — yes — god, yes."

Sherlock hummed in response, the noise vibrating against John's already sensitive flesh. He continued his loving assault on John’s cock with strokes of tongue and hand. John’s head fell back against the chair as his body melted into Sherlock’s caress. As he relaxed, the hand on his belly slid up and tweaked his nipple.

“N-not fair, Sherlock,” he groaned.

John was drowning. Long, tantalizing minutes passed, but he had no idea how many. His eyes were closed — not that he didn’t want to watch, but he knew he would come immediately if he saw Sherlock’s perfect pink mouth stretched around his aching prick.

Finally, Sherlock slid off and dipped his head to burrow for John’s sensitive testicles.   

"Sherl — love, too good. I can't, won't last — please —” John moaned again.

Sherlock trailed his tongue back around the base of John’s cock, his hand continuing a steady rhythm. “Oh, please, oh, please…”

Sherlock licked his way back up to the head. He lapped off the drops pre-come that had collected and swirled around the head once more. He looked up to find John watching him through half-closed eyes.

“I love you,” John whispered.

Sherlock sucked him in again, flattening his tongue and hollowing out his cheeks, easing the throbbing shaft down, down into his throat. He felt John’s orgasm before he heard it — hips jerking reflexively, muscles tensing. “God, I’m going to — Sherlock!”

He tugged gently on the dark curls in warning, but Sherlock resisted. He moaned around the pulsing cock and swallowed as John filled his mouth. He eased back and continued to suck very gently as John rode out the aftershocks.

John was gasping, boneless and weak. “Oh, my god.”

Sherlock released the softening flesh and rested his cheek on John's thigh, panting. "Good?"

"Jes — Sherlock — the hottes —” John realized he wasn't making much sense. His fingers tangled in the dark curls.

"I'm sorry, John. I couldn't wait anymore. Feeling your weight on top of me tonight, your hands on me, I just — I had to touch you, taste you."

"Sherlock, you didn't have to —”

"I wanted this," Sherlock soothed. "I needed this."

"Have you done it before?"

"I have had some limited experience with blowjobs, yes. But I've been doing some additional research." He paused looking up to meet John's eyes. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You could _never_ disappoint me," John breathed, his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "But just for the record: that was unbelievable."

Sherlock's obvious pleasure was almost child-like. He stretched up, hands on John's thighs, to place a firm kiss on John's mouth before starting to stand, his trousers displaying the evidence of his own arousal.

John grasped him firmly by the scruff of the neck and drew him back down, reaching up to chase him with tender kisses. He pulled the long legs onto the chair, one on either side of his thighs to straddle him. He was scrambling for the waistband of the elegant tight trousers when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He brought his forehead to rest against Sherlock’s.

“FUCK Lestrade!”

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock said wryly. He took a shuddering breath and eased himself up and away from John. He walked toward the kitchen, giving them both space to recover, as he checked the message. “They have him.”

“Don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t.”

“Well, I do.”

“I know,” John sighed. He looked up as Sherlock appeared in front of him again, coat already on and scarf in hand.

“Are you coming?”

“Not for a while.”

“Very funny.” Sherlock smirked at him, tugging on John’s shirtsleeve. John stood on still-shaking legs, trying and failing to maintain his dignity while stuffing himself back into his trousers.

“No chance of a shower?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together. John sighed again and reached for his jacket. Sherlock’s mouth turned up a little and he strode toward the door, humming.

 _Oh, shit, Sherlock,_ John thought as he followed his lover down the stairs.

The genie was out of the bottle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Why Do You Let Me Stay Here? - She & Him


	15. Gold in Them Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is jealous, John is horny and Molly has a secret.

The day of Greg and Molly's wedding dawned clear and bright. It was cool for August, but still beautiful and pleasantly warm — an auspicious beginning. 

At 221B, things were going a little less well.

"I'm not going!" Sherlock was in his bedroom, supposedly getting dressed.

"Yes, you are." John was already changed, dressed in a sleek-cut suit Sherlock had picked out for him. He was eating toast in the kitchen, reading the paper.

"No, I'm not. Why did they ask me to be part of this thing anyway? Greg and I are not friends. He doesn't even like me." He stopped in the doorway and shouted down the hallway. "Molly is a well-meaning if ridiculous creature…"

"Sherlock, you owe her your life. Literally!"

"And yet I've rarely had an encounter with her in which I didn't insult her! Why would these people want someone like me to be part of their _special day_?"

"Greg may not like you sometimes, but he respects and admires you," John said evenly. "You know that. You know how hard he worked to clear your name. And Molly — for reasons none of us will ever understand — adores you. They consider you a friend and they want you to be part of their wedding. And you will be."

John could hear Sherlock flopping onto his bed. He knew Sherlock hadn't slept; he'd been tetchy all morning.

"John, it's all so pointless. Greg was married before and his wife cheated on him. Molly has had a string of failed relationships with various unemployed losers and half-wits — and one psychopath, let's not forget about that." Sherlock sighed. "Statistically, this marriage is doomed to fail. Why must we all suffer through this farcical ceremony and the finger sandwiches to follow? Why?" he whined.

John stood and took his plate to the sink before heading calmly down the hallway. Now _this_ was his Sherlock. He smiled. If he were honest, he had missed the drama. Just a little bit.

He stopped in Sherlock's doorway and surveyed the wreckage. The suit bag from the wedding hire was thrown into one corner. He couldn't see the top hat, but he knew it had probably been discarded somewhere. There was a trail of random socks leading from the bureau to the bed, where three pairs had been abandoned. The bed was still unmade, one of the pillows on the floor, along with four pairs of pants. John surveyed Sherlock, looking positively decadent as he sprawled on top of the twisted sheets. John swallowed hard — he was so beautiful, even having a tantrum. Sherlock looked up at him with a pained expression.

"A morning suit, John. It's _grey_." Sherlock threw his arm over his head like Scarlett O'Hara. "It's so ridiculous."

"Is that what this is all about? You don't like your outfit?"

Sherlock turned and glared at him. "Of course not. Don't be so obtuse." He sat up in the bed. "This — horrible, unsanitary thing —” He held one lapel up with two fingers. “— is merely the outward symbol of a hopelessly flawed enterprise. I believe our friends are making a mistake and that by participating in this charade we are providing pretence of approval and support."

John snorted. "You're just nervous about standing up in front of all those people, and you don't like your suit," he said, walking across the room to collect the top hat that had been tossed into the corner. "Come on, princess. Up. Let's go."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you _ordering_ me to take part in this wedding?"

John smiled at him. "You know what, I am. I know you don't want to do this, but sometimes being a grown up means you have to do things that are entirely for other people."

Sherlock was staring into his lap now. "I did something entirely for you the other night."

John's cheeks blazed and his smile faded. Sherlock looked up and met his eyes with a mischievous smirk.

It had been almost two days since Sherlock had gone down on him, but they'd been so busy with the case they hadn't had time even to talk about it.

After they’d arrived at the Yard that night, they’d spent two hours observing the suspect’s interrogation (his brief had refused to allow Sherlock in the room or to ask anything directly). John had finally gone to complete his statement in Greg’s office — frankly, things had become very embarrassing. Every time Sherlock had touched his arm, or whispered, “John, look at the way he moved just then. What do you think?” John had blushed right to the roots of his hair like a horny teenager. Sherlock was absorbed with their suspect, but all John could think about was Sherlock’s mouth on his cock.

He’d fallen asleep with his head on Greg’s desk only to be shaken awake near 4 a.m. Sherlock had gone to Bart’s, so John had returned to the flat and managed a few hours restless sleep (filled with very disturbing and extremely naked dreams). He’d awoken with a raging hard on and had to have a wank in the shower to images of Sherlock’s naked arse. There was a brief respite, seeing patients most of that afternoon. But as the day wound down, and he began to anticipate seeing Sherlock at home, it had become more and more difficult to concentrate.

He’d returned home at 5 to discover that although Sherlock had texted twice to say he would be home early, he still hadn’t returned. After scrounging supper and watching Top Gear, John had fallen asleep on the sofa. Alone. He’d still been there this morning, covered with Sherlock’s coat.

All he’d been able to think about since that night was Sherlock’s tall, lean body, naked and writhing underneath him, and Sherlock moaning his name. And the bastard knew it.

Trust Sherlock to have an episode _and_ discover sexual manipulation at the same damn time.

John scowled and looked at his watch. Their cab would be here in less than five minutes. Sherlock continued to smirk at him and John's temper flared. He was now painfully aroused and he had a full day's worth of wedding formalities to suffer through before he could do anything about it.

"Up!" he barked. Sherlock looked surprised and jumped to his feet. John stood very close to him and spoke in a very calm, very John-like tone of voice. "Right, now, you are going to take this hat and you are going to follow me downstairs to the cab and you are going to participate in the wedding of our friends. You are going to be civil and pleasant. You will not fight with Mycroft — yes, he's coming — and you will not try to seduce me. Is that understood?"

Sherlock was looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "I must admit, John, I really do find your tone of command very arousing."

"Of course you do," John sighed. He turned and stalked from the room, taking the hat with him.

Sherlock hesitated then hurried to catch up. He followed his angry flatmate down the stairs in silence. The cab was waiting, and Sherlock piled in behind John without a word.

"Where to, lads?"

"St Michael's Church, South Grove, Highgate," John answered swiftly before Sherlock had the chance to demand to be taken to Waterloo Station.

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye as they pulled out into traffic. He slid one hand across the seat, past the top hat perched between them, and touched John's fingers. John snatched them away and folded both hands in his lap, keeping his gaze fixed out the opposite window.

"John —”

"Shut it, Sherlock." John warned. He sighed, his chin dropping to his chest. He turned to look at the man with a lopsided smile. More tenderly, he added, "Just not now, yeah? Let's try to make this day a good one for Greg and for Molly. We owe them that."

Sherlock sighed heavily. John could see his resignation settling in. "I won't wear the hat," he said finally.

"Yes, you will."

"What will you give me if I do?"

John regarded the predatory expression for a moment. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want, John."

"Yes, I do."

"And you want it, too."

"God, yes."

"Have we waited long enough? Are you ready?"

"Are you?"

"Quite."

"Well, that’s that, then." John closed his eyes, trying to think about anything except naked Sherlock. Naked Sherlock. Naked Sherlock's arse. Naked Sherlock's — god, he was going to lose his mind before they got home tonight! Mrs. Hudson. Naked Anderson. Naked Mycroft. He was not going to arrive at a church for a wedding with an erection.

John turned his attention back to his window. He could see the reflection of a smug Sherlock as the dark head leaned in and he whispered in John's ear, "And if you thought the blow job was good, just wait until you're inside me."

John groaned, achingly uncomfortable now. "Oh, god..."

Sherlock sighed. "But I promise to behave for the rest of the day. Scout's honour."

"You were never a Scout, you prat."

Sherlock’s deeply satisfied chuckling did nothing to improve John’s mood. He grumbled, but didn’t speak to Sherlock for the remainder of the trip. He concentrated on breathing and thinking about dental surgery, stamp collecting and the life cycle of butter beans.

When the cab finally pulled up in front of the church Sherlock slipped out with a smile and made his way through the tight knot of people out front. He'd disappeared from sight by the time John was standing on the pavement. John was handing the cabbie a bill when he heard a familiar voice.

"Dr. Watson."

John turned to find Mycroft standing behind him, as elegant as ever in a pin-striped suit.

"Mycroft," he replied.

"I take it my brother…”

"Has already joined Greg at the front of the church." He stuffed his wallet back into his snug new trousers. How did Sherlock breathe in clothes this tight?

"Ah," Mycroft replied, looking surprised. "Well, then, I suppose I will have to stay and witness this blessed event."

"You will not antagonize him today." It was not a suggestion.

Mycroft merely smiled and turned to walk into the church with John. They took seats near the middle of the congregation, right next to some of the younger officers John knew. They all greeted him warmly.

"On your own today, doc?" This came from one of the youngest sergeants in Greg's unit, seated next to John.

"No, not exactly," John replied. He pointed to the front of the church where Greg and Sherlock and one other man had just emerged.

"You're kidding!" The young man winked at John and then nudged the kid beside him. "Look at that, will ya'."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. He watched as the young officers passed the information down the line — they were abuzz with it now, all staring at Sherlock and whispering amongst themselves.

"Making wagers, I should imagine," Mycroft drawled. "How long before the 'Freak' makes a scene."

The priest stepped forward and invited the congregation to stand. The organist began to _play Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring_. Light streamed in as the back doors were opened and the bride made her entrance. Everyone turned, but John hesitated. He looked instead at Sherlock, struck again by the depth of his feelings for the handsome man standing at the front of the crowded church.

To the untrained eye, it looked as though Sherlock was concentrating on the procession. John knew, however, that he was probably deducing the lives and stories of the people in the first three rows and trying very hard not to appear bored. His gaze shifted suddenly and he caught John looking at him. He winked and John's heart skipped a beat.

John turned then, and smiled again as Molly appeared. She was radiant, in a fluffy white confection of a gown, her long hair pulled up and a smile for only one person in the room. John glanced back at Greg, beaming now.

John felt a pang of sadness, thinking of another wedding. But he could almost hear Mary's voice in his head telling him she'd have no more of that on her account. John felt Sherlock's eyes on him and he looked up again, noticing the crinkle between his brows. How did he always know?

John winked this time, to let him know it was all right. Everything was going to be all right. Sherlock's expression cleared and he gave an almost imperceptible nod, turning his attention back to Greg.

"He loves you," Mycroft whispered.

"I know."

"I never imagined —” Mycroft hesitated. "Thank you."

John looked askance at Sherlock’s brother, stunned. The bride had reached the altar, so there was no time to reply. In truth, he wasn't sure Mycroft expected him to. Nor did he have any idea what he might have said.

John was still thinking about it later that afternoon as he stood alone on the lawn in front of Kenwood House. Everyone was milling about waiting for the bridal party to return from taking photographs. John really did wish he could be a fly on the wall for that. He felt tremendous empathy for anyone trying to get Sherlock to stand still or smile, or do both at the same time. Greg had already promised him copies of all the outtakes.

Mycroft had made his excuses (something about a coup in South America) for which John was grateful. As touched as he was to know that Sherlock's brother wasn't completely heartless, he just wasn't sure what to say to the man after that. He'd never been thanked for loving someone before.

"Hello." John turned to find a pretty, petite thirty-something brunette standing behind him holding two glasses of champagne. She stepped in closer. "I hope you don't mind. You just looked all on your own here. I thought...well, I'm Jennifer."

"Yes, of course. Please. I'm John," he replied with an easy smile. He took the proffered flute. "Oh, cheers."

"So are you a ghoul or a copper?"

"Sorry? Oh right: bride or groom. It's, um, both actually. I work with both of them."

Jennifer smiled. "And what do you do?"

"I'm a doctor, but I do some consulting work for the Met."

"Consulting work? That sounds very interesting." Jennifer edged closer.

John took a sip of champagne, wishing he had something stronger. "It is. So what about you?"

"Oh, I'm Molly's cousin," she replied lightly, waving a hand. "She's such a sweet girl, but she's always been so quiet and shy. Didn't think we would ever see this day. I have to say I was gobsmacked when I met Greg. He's a dish. And he's so lovely to her."

"Well, she's been good for him, too, really."

Jennifer looked up him with undisguised interest now. The long lashes on her dark brown eyes batted, just a little.

Oh, damn. John backed up a little.

"So, John —”

"Darling! There you are!"

John sagged with relief as he watched Sherlock approach. Jennifer gave John a puzzled look before turning to follow his gaze. John smiled as Sherlock neared and was just about to ease the awkwardness by introducing him to Jennifer when Sherlock grabbed him around the waist and captured his lips in a dramatic kiss. He bent John back over his arm, plundering his mouth, calmly taking the champagne flute from him with his other hand. John was still too keyed up from their earlier conversation to resist — he held on to Sherlock's lapels and kissed him back hard. John heard a noise of irritation and felt Sherlock pulling back. Sherlock eased them out of their embrace, keeping the arm firmly around John's waist.

"I'm so sorry. Where are my manners?" It was Sherlock's sociopath voice, and the smile that went with it. John fought the urge to roll his eyes. "It's just that I haven't seen this gorgeous creature since before the church and I've missed him desperately."

Jennifer glared at John. "Well, you might have said," she snapped, turning on her heel and returning to join the other guests on the gravel path as they began to move inside.

"Sherlock."

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock watched the woman's departure. He took a sip of champagne and grimaced, regarding the glass as though it had somehow offended him. "I don't like to share."

"You know you'll never have to."

Sherlock assessed him. "You know that, and I know that, but apparently I'm going to have to put it on a sign around your neck for everyone else."

John snorted. "One woman, Sherlock. At a wedding. Weddings are notorious, you know."

"For what?"

"For being a good place to —” John cleared his throat. "— meet people."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, his hand tightening around John's waist. "You've tested this yourself?"

John took the champagne flute back and emptied it, averting his eyes. "Once or twice." He could feel Sherlock's hard stare burning a hole in the back of his head. He finally turned to meet it. "Come on, it was a long time ago."

Sherlock huffed. "Still, women are attracted to you. Men as well, likely. I will need to consider that."

"Are you _jealous_?" John was stunned.

Sherlock looked off into the distance. "I'm being practical. It would save a great deal of time — and spare everyone's _feelings_ — if it were obvious that you are…attached."

"My, god. You are. You're jealous." John leaned into the taller man's body. "You know, this is very flattering. Realistically, though, there probably aren't all that many people who are going to be interested in me."

"Fit, kind, well-educated, handsome, a decorated veteran, a doctor?"

"Short, middle-aged, physically and emotionally damaged. Yes, I'm quite a catch," John chuckled.

Sherlock turned to stare at him, genuinely taken aback. "Yes, John, you are."

John regarded Sherlock for a moment. His smile faded when he realized that the man was completely serious. Another moment of naked, unreserved, politically incorrect, unvarnished Holmesian truth. They weren't always this pleasant, but they were always..."Amazing. You are —” John was cut off as Sherlock kissed him again. John wrapped his own arm around Sherlock's waist under the tails and held fast.

Sherlock drew back with a sigh. "Greg will be wondering where I am."

John let his head drop against Sherlock's shoulder. "You know, Holmes, I'm starting to like this coat of yours."

"Really? _Why_?"

"'Cause I can do this without anyone seeing." John let his hand drift down from Sherlock's waist over the soft curve of his arse, and squeezed.

The other groomsman appeared at the door to the Orangery and waved at Sherlock. He groaned, just a little. "We'd better go in."

John took Sherlock's offered hand as they walked across the lawn towards the rest of the wedding guests.

"Sherlock," John said cautiously. "What are you grinning about?"

"I wore the hat, John."

Heat coursed through John's veins. "Did you?"

"Yes. I did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Gold in Them Hills - Ron Sexsmith


	16. Stay the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending, in every sense.

"And what is the purpose of this?" Sherlock sat leaning back in his chair, legs and arms crossed, observing the spectacle on the dance floor in the Old Kitchen at Kenwood House.

"The girls — all the single ones — line up and the bride throws her bouquet. The girl who catches the bouquet will be the next one to get married."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Curious. Is there any empirical data to confirm this?"

John chuckled, leaning heavily on the table beside them, which was cluttered now with the remnants of wedding cake. Once dinner was over and Sherlock had been released from the head table, he’d come to join John in the Old Kitchen and they’d found a quiet seat as far away from the dancing as possible. Sherlock had survived his limited duties as best man (Greg and Molly had decided, quite wisely, to skip some of the toasts). In fact, aside from some tense moments during the receiving line (for which John had remained close) he’d done remarkably well.

"Nah, it's just a silly tradition thing," John finally replied. He was feeling a little bit silly himself. Not drunk, but pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. He'd forgotten what champagne did to him.

"Boring. It's obvious the tall brunette with the limp will get married before any of the others, and she didn't even attempt to catch the bouquet. If you consider — John, are you listening to me?"

"Oh, I'm very tipsy, Sherlock." He regarded the taller man. "Did you drink at all?"

"No." Sherlock said blandly. "Alcohol can impede sexual performance."

John nearly choked on the mouthful of watery vodka and something he'd just taken. "Right."

"What is that anyway?”

“Vodka and I’m not really sure. One of the lads brought it over.” John gestured toward the young police officers all gathered around the bar. “He said he thought I needed something stronger than champagne and that it would help me, for later. Not sure what he meant.”

Sherlock took the glass from John and sniffed its contents, then took a sip. “Hmmm.” He set the glass back down on the table with a roll of his eyes.

“Hmmm, what? What is it?”

“Vodka and Red Bull. I assume he intended to imply that you needed the vodka in order to put up with me and the energy drink in order to satisfy me sexually later this evening.”

John looked over to the young coppers again. One of them nodded at him and raised a glass in a toast, laughing heartily. “That little wanker!”

“Ignore him, John.” He peered at the older man for a moment. “Why did you drink so much?" The question held no hint of accusation, but was instead merely curious.

John sighed. "Because you sent me filthy texts all through dinner…when the hell did you become so good at sexting anyway? And then you fixed me with that hungry stare — yup, that's the one, right there — and it was getting to the point where the napkin would no longer hide my massive hard on," John muttered under his breath. "I had two choices: go and toss off in the loo or drink."

In truth, the whole thing was incredibly arousing, not to mention flattering. If John hadn't been so uncomfortable, and if Molly's Aunt Martha hadn't kept asking him if there was "something wrong with the strange boy at the head table," he'd probably have enjoyed it a whole lot more.

"I see. Are you still aroused?"

John grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and pulled it under the long tablecloth before dropping it into his lap. Sherlock obliged, brushing over John's thigh and quickly finding the ridge of his newly awakened erection. His long fingers curled around John's length and stroked gently.

"Can we go home now?" His voice was so deep John almost didn't hear him.

John swallowed, not taking his eyes from Sherlock's face. He nodded and stood. Sherlock reached for his hand. John took it and moved behind him to follow him out of the hall.

They were half way to the door when Molly intercepted them. She and Greg had started making the rounds, saying their goodbyes so they could get a start on their honeymoon.

"John, Sherlock!" She rushed over and threw her arms around each of them in turn. "Thank you, so much, for today. It just wouldn't have been the same without you two here."

Sherlock looked as though he might about to say something frank, so John intervened. "It was just lovely, Molly. We were so pleased to be here. And Sherlock was just tickled that Greg asked him to be best man. Weren't you, Sherlock?"

"Tickled."

Molly beamed. She leaned in and kissed John's cheek. "You don't know how pleased I am to see you together, and so happy. It just makes everything — well, I shouldn't really be telling anyone yet, but I wanted you two to be among the first to know." She paused, her cheeks pinkening. "Greg and I are going to have a baby."

"Oh, Molly, congratulations!" John kissed her back. "That's just lovely. Isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John with his puzzled face, but recovered quickly to John's cue. "Lovely."

"Molly?" A voice called to her from the dance floor.

"I'd better go." She squeezed John's hand and disappeared in a whirl of white skirts.

They made it another five steps before John heard Greg's voice behind them. "John, wait."

John groaned, but fixed a smile as they turned. "Greg. Congratulations, mate." He extended his hand and Greg shook it.

"Thanks for coming, guys. Sherlock, I know this isn't exactly your sort of thing, but it meant the world to Molly and me."

Sherlock attempted a smile. Greg laughed. "That was pretty good! Almost looked like the real thing, didn't it, John? Aw, come here, you nutter." He grabbed Sherlock in a fierce bear hug. Sherlock stood rigidly for a moment before relenting. He raised one hand and slapped Greg once on the shoulder.

Greg pulled back and stuffed his hands in his pockets with a satisfied smile. "So I guess she told you, then?"

"Just now, yeah," John agreed. "Congratulations on that as well. When is she due?"

"February. She's over the moon. Well, so am I."

"It's great news."

"Maybe you two can babysit some time," he teased. "No severed heads, though, Uncle Sherlock."

John chuckled. Sherlock looked absolutely horrified.

"Anyway, I'd better get back. You two take care while I'm gone. Don't get into any trouble."

"I'll keep an eye on him," John assured him. Greg turned to leave with a wave and John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Run for it," he said to Sherlock, tugging on his hand.

" _Uncle_ Sherlock?"

"Hmm," John mused, hustling toward the door. "It'll be kind of nice, having a little one around."

"You wouldn't actually consider looking after their infant, would you?"

"He was kidding, Sherlock. But to answer your question: sure, why not? I like kids."

Sherlock followed him from the hall and out into the summer evening air without another word. He was still silent when the cab arrived a few minutes later. He climbed in beside John and tucked himself up against his side, but turned to stare out the window. They rode without speaking for several minutes.

John glanced at Sherlock, noting the tension in his jaw.

"All right," he said finally. "What's wrong?"

"Is that something you would like?"

John shook his head. "You've lost me. Is _what_ something I would like?"

"A little one. Around."

"Oh. Oh, no, Sherlock —”

"Do you want children, John?"

"Look at me," he insisted. Sherlock turned, his expression one of real fear. John stroked his cheek. "I don't want you to think, ever, that I am giving something up to be with you. I have everything I want. Right here."

"But…”

"But what? Mary?" John let out a heavy breath. "Sherlock, Mary’d had two very serious miscarriages when she was younger. According to her doctors, it would have taken a miracle for her to conceive. We weren't planning on it. _I_ wasn't planning on it."

Sherlock looked somewhat relieved.

"Besides," John continued. "It's the 21st century. If things changed, and we decided it was something we wanted, there are ways."

"John, no one in their right mind would give a child to _me_."

John took Sherlock's hand in his and raised it to his lips. "If it was what you wanted, I think Uncle Mycroft might make a pretty convincing argument."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. "I suppose so."

"Better now?"

Sherlock responded with a tender kiss, just a brush of his lips across John's. He reached up a hand and swept a stray sandy lock from John's forehead and placed a kiss on his brow. He pulled back and then drew one slender finger over each dark blue eye, urging John to close them. He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on each lid, then one on John's nose and one on each cheek before returning to his mouth. He lingered there before resting his head on John's shoulder.

"I don't know who I am anymore without you."

"I had to find out the hard way," John whispered gruffly. "I don't intend to do it again." He lifted Sherlock toward him and covered his lips in a heated kiss. He drew the soft, lush lower lip between his own and sucked gently. One hand buried itself in his favourite spot — Sherlock's dark curls — and the other slid over Sherlock's waist to rest in the small of his back. He made a fist in the white shirt and dragged Sherlock closer. He probed the seam of Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, moaning as Sherlock opened for him and met John's tongue with his own.

Sherlock slid a hand over John's chest, fiddling with the buttons of the suit he was now silently cursing. He finally pried the buttons open and slid his hand over the thin silk of John's shirt with a low rumble of satisfaction. The buttons on the shirt were much easier to manage; three popped open easily and his eager hand slid in against John's heated skin.

John moaned. Sherlock teased John's tongue with his own as he slid his hand over the John’s chest, coming to rest with his palm over John's erect nipple. He grazed over the sensitive flesh. John leaned into him with another moan.

"Sherlock," John's voice was hoarse.

"Soon," Sherlock whispered, capturing John's lips again. He dropped his hand into John's lap to cup his throbbing cock.

Neither of them was aware of anything else for the remainder of the trip. Neither man noticed when the driver finally slowed down and came to a stop. Neither of them heard the driver when he announced that they'd arrived.

"'Scuse me!" he said again, more loudly.

Sherlock raised his head to find the cabbie grinning at them.

"221B Baker Street?"

Sherlock nodded with as much dignity as he could muster. He straightened his jacket and turned to slide out of the cab. John pulled everything back where it should be — mostly — and stepped out onto the curb. He approached the window and glanced in at the fare.

"Newlyweds?" the cab driver asked. John merely smiled at this as he handed over a bill. The man chuckled as he handed back the change. "Gonna have your hands full keepin' up with that one."

John turned, but Sherlock was gone. The door to the flat was slightly ajar. "Damn," he muttered, hurrying to follow. Inside the door, Sherlock's hired morning coat was discarded on the steps. The top hat was resting on the landing above. John took the stairs two at a time. He stepped into the lounge, glancing around quickly and spotting the dress shirt that had been tossed in to the room through the open door. He turned and made his way to Sherlock's room. In the hallway he found discarded shoes and a sock.

The door was half closed as he approached. He could just make out a pile of trousers and pants on the floor. "Sherlock?"

John pushed the door open slowly and stepped into the room. He began to close the door behind him then fell ungracefully against it. The sight that greeted him stole his breath and drew every drop of blood from his body into his groin.

"Oh. My. God."

Sherlock was completely naked but for John’s dog tags, kneeling on the edge of his bed with his hands on his wide-spread thighs. The dim light of the bedside lamp reflected off the beautiful pale skin and gave even darker shadows to the otherworldly cheekbones.

"You are so beautiful."

"Come here, John," Sherlock said softly, his hand extended. John walked forward on unsteady legs finally bumping into the edge of the bed. They were nose to nose, chest to chest, eye to eye. John could feel the heat from Sherlock's body through his clothes and his arousal against his belly. He looked down, trying to memorize the planes and angles of Sherlock's body. "John?"

John met his eyes, glazed now. They were so close, their breath — coming harder and faster — mingled between them. Sherlock pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against John's lips. He kissed a trail down over John's jaw and buried his face against his neck. He opened his mouth over John's pulse and began to nip and suck at the sensitive skin. "Please."

John growled something unintelligible and dragged Sherlock's mouth back to his own. He grasped Sherlock's hips in both hands and ground them against his own. The friction of their cocks trapped between them made them both moan. Sherlock wrapped both arms around John's neck, meeting John's tongue thrust for thrust and rubbing his body against the spot where John was pressing against him. John slid greedy hands up and over the narrow waist, the taught abdomen and back out and up. He caressed the silk of Sherlock's shoulders and ventured down over the long, lean back until he reached the perfect, lush globes of Sherlock's beautiful arse. He dug his fingers into the cheeks, matching the rhythm Sherlock had set, rocking their bodies together.

Finally, Sherlock pulled away from their kiss. "Too many clothes. Help me," he whispered.

As John toed off his shoes and socks, Sherlock slid his hands under John's jacket at the shoulders and pushed down and back. John obliged by dropping his arms to release the restrictive garment while Sherlock's nimble fingers released all the buttons on his new shirt and spread it wide, forcing it down over his shoulders. He tugged at the sleeves, forgetting that he hadn't undone those buttons.

"Damn it."

John intervened, yanking sharply at each wrist, sending the buttons flying and the shirt fluttering to the floor. He grasped Sherlock's face and kissed him hard as Sherlock ran his hands up and down the firm golden skin before sliding south to attack the waistband of his trousers.

John moaned, his fingers laced in the dark curls, as Sherlock released the clasp of the trousers and began sliding them over his hips along with his boxers. Sherlock pulled back from John’s hands to be able to drag his own down over John's thighs to release the last barriers between them. He dragged a hot, wet tongue over John's abdomen as he returned and paused over one erect nipple. He could feel John's indrawn breath as he lapped at it with his tongue.

Sherlock flicked at the sensitive flesh again then drew it into his mouth, sucking hard.

John arched against him as the current of pleasure went straight to his cock. "Fuck, yes, Sherlock." John's hands returned to Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock released the nipple, grazing it with his teeth and hesitating only to blow on the damp flesh gently before turning his attention to the other. John's head dropped back: How did he know? How did he always know?

Sherlock kissed his way back to John's mouth, his tongue plunging in as John stepped free of the fabric at his feet. Sherlock lifted up and wrapped both arms around John's shoulders, unwinding his own long legs from beneath him as John kneeled on the bed. John lifted Sherlock as he kneeled on the bed and then eased them down, hands on the mattress on either side of Sherlock, their lips never parting. They settled somewhat side by side, John stroking and teasing at Sherlock’s nipples with his free hand. Sherlock groaned into his mouth, releasing one arm from John’s neck and sliding his hand down between them.

"Ohhhh, god, please, love," John whispered as Sherlock captured their cocks together and began to stroke. He pumped their erections, panting now. John dropped his brow to Sherlock's, looking down on the incredibly erotic sight. He muttered silly nonsense words of affection and appreciation as Sherlock pleasured them both. But he was so hard, so hot. He'd waited so long, he wasn't sure if he could last. And he wanted so much more.

"Sherlock, wait — god, so good. I — wan-nt to taste you." John's voice was weak.

Sherlock kissed him lingeringly before releasing him.

John slid down the length of the long body, taking his time to lave and suck and caress every inch as he did. He paused only once, briefly, where his tags lay against the pale skin. “Mine,” he breathed, pressing his lips to the metal and the surrounding flesh.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed throatily. “Yes, John. I’m yours.”

John continued his journey — later he would take the time to thoroughly explore, but his control was beginning to slip. He nuzzled into the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s lower belly and kissed a trail to Sherlock’s straining erection. He tasted gently first, running his tongue down one side from tip to root, drifting his fingers along the top edge as he did.

“Mmmmore — oh, John!”

Sherlock’s hips lifted in invitation. John smiled, sliding his free hand to splay out across Sherlock’s taut abdomen.

John moaned deep in his throat as he worked his lover’s cock with his mouth and hand. Sherlock was panting now, writhing and repeating John’s name. He knew Sherlock was close, but didn’t slow — John wanted him to come in his mouth. He was so intent on it that at first he didn’t notice his hand being lifted from where it had been stroking the soft fuzz on Sherlock’s lower belly. He didn’t notice Sherlock reaching behind him for a small bottle or hear the lid snap open.

He did notice, though, when a cold viscous liquid was deposited on his fingers and Sherlock began to move it around, thoroughly coating each digit.

John released Sherlock's cock with an obscene 'pop', meeting his lover's eyes.

"Open me up."

John stared at his slick fingers. He knew what to do, obviously. He was a doctor, after all. And Sherlock wasn't the only one who'd been doing research. "Are you sure? We don't have to —”

"John, please!"

He held Sherlock's gaze as he eased his hand down into the crease of Sherlock's arse. He spread the lovely, rounded cheeks then teased at the opening, circling first, spreading the moisture and massaging the entrance to Sherlock's body. He knew how important this was, he didn't want to cause Sherlock any pain. He had to take things slowly…

"John," Sherlock groaned. He canted his hips towards John's hand.

John eased one finger inside, pushing gently through the tight ring of muscle. He advanced slowly.

“Okay?” He took the breathy sound Sherlock made as approval. He began to move, flicking his tongue over the head of Sherlock's cock as he did. “You feel so good.”

Sherlock moaned now. "Been practicing. For you."

"Oh, god." John's head went fuzzy with images of Sherlock fingering himself. He dropped his head to Sherlock's hip, concentrating on the rhythm of his hand to keep from spending too soon.

He increased the pace, and eased a second finger inside his lover. He concentrated on opening and scissoring, loosening the passage in preparation for his cock. He continued an easy rhythm, dipping his head to suck on Sherlock's cock as he did. Eventually, Sherlock began to move, thrusting toward and grasping at John's fingers as they moved inside him.

John eased a third finger inside him, moving a little more quickly now and circling until he found…

"JOHN!" Sherlock thrashed as John brushed his prostate. His eyes were wide as he looked down at John, still ministering to his throbbing erection. "More!"

John eased his hand away and slid back up the bed. Sherlock was already reaching back to where he'd retrieved the lube. He was tugging at the foil packet, his fingers shaking, as John leaned in and kissed him.

"Easy, love," he whispered. "Let me."

John took the condom from the packet and eased to his side to roll it home. Sherlock reached down with a lube-slicked hand to coat him thoroughly. Their lips met, tongues twining as John moved back up and over Sherlock, settling between his legs. Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John as John lined up his aching cock at the opening of Sherlock's body. Sherlock slid his hands up John's chest.

"Now."

"So bossy." John eased the head of his cock forward, gently breaching Sherlock. Sherlock sucked in his breath, bearing down against the intrusion. John edged forward slowly.

"But you love it," Sherlock hissed, his fingers digging into John's shoulders. “You love _me_.”

“Jes — yes, I love you — love you, Sherlock — FUCK!” The heat and drag of the tight opening was like nothing John had ever experienced. Nothing could have prepared him for the sweet pleasure of being inside Sherlock. He continued to ease his cock forward, biting his lip hard to maintain control.

“Oh, god, John, MORE. Fuck me, please.” Sherlock pushed down hard, engulfing John’s cock to the hilt.

John swore, his head dropping as he struggled to hold on. Sherlock moaned, shifting his hips up and back in a desperate attempt to fuck himself on John’s cock.

“Easy, love,” John soothed again. “I’ve got you.” He withdrew and sank in again, quickly finding a rhythm. They rocked together, Sherlock eventually abandoning John’s chest and arms to stroke himself with each thrust.

John alternated his pace: five or six measured, shallow strokes followed by a graceless, animalistic pounding that had Sherlock howling his name.

“Hope Mrs. Hudson is out,” John panted over the slap of skin on skin.

“FUCK Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snarled.

“Rather not — oh, god, love.” John’s teasing was cut short as Sherlock’s legs tightened around him. Sherlock tugged on his leaking cock as he drove himself down onto his lover’s shaft. He rolled his hips with each thrust, helping John to hit his prostate with regularity. He moaned again.

“So close, John. So —”

“Sherlock, look at me.” John slowed again so they could both catch their breath. “Open your eyes, and look at me.”

Sherlock complied, the beautiful, changeable irises of his eyes almost obscured by black pupil.

“Come for me, love. Keep your eyes on me. Don’t look away.”

Sherlock nodded. John sped up, burying himself balls-deep in Sherlock’s arse with every thrust. Faster, harder, driven by the climax spooling in his own body until…

“JOHN!!!” Sherlock came, hard, all over both of them, his body clenching around John inside him as he did.

“Fuck, yes, oh, god, Sherlock. I love you — love you so much…” John groaned as his body was wracked by an orgasm more powerful than anything he had ever felt before. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over him as he held Sherlock’s gaze. He moaned, unable to control the urge to grind himself against Sherlock as the last of his climax ebbed.

They regarded each other: flushed, sweaty, panting, come-covered. And beautiful. Sherlock recovered enough to pull John down into a passionate kiss that stole John’s remaining breath. They tasted and sucked at each other’s mouths as their bodies came back down.

“I wish,” Sherlock finally rumbled into his ear, “that you could stay inside me all night.”

“So do I, love,” John replied. “But I can’t.” He pulled back and reached down to ease his softening flesh out of Sherlock, taking care to hold onto the condom. He removed it and tied it, quickly tossing it into the bin beside the bed.

His arms began to buckle and Sherlock caught him. He relaxed his weight into Sherlock’s embrace, his head tucked under Sherlock’s chin.

“I’m too heavy,” he protested.

“No.” Sherlock’s arms held him tight.

John allowed lethargy to claim him for a few moments, unaccountably pleased by the feeling of being sheltered — safe and warm — in Sherlock’s arms. He dozed a little until he felt a long finger tapping his shoulder.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative.

“Hmmm?”

“I need the toilet.”

John lifted up and placed a tender kiss on the long neck. He smiled at his lover before rolling over on to the bed away from the door. He watched affectionately as Sherlock stood and made his way to the loo on ever-so-slightly unsteady legs.

John stretched out on his back, sliding up toward the headboard and tucking a pillow beneath his head. The duvet was rucked up on the far side of the bed where they had shoved it out of their way. John tugged it over him, folding back the corner so Sherlock would be able to slide beneath — he was sure to be chilled when he got back.

He dozed again, waking only when Sherlock’s body returned to his side. John’s eyes opened as he felt a warm damp cloth smoothing over him. Sherlock had brought a flannel back with him and was cleaning him up.

He smiled at John and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on his mouth. He dropped the cloth over the side of the bed and rolled back onto his side up against John, curling in close and wrapping one arm around John’s middle. John stretched his arm out and Sherlock obliged, using it as a pillow. John flipped the corner of the duvet over Sherlock and tugged it up snugly before tucking his hand behind his head to relish the quiet of the afterglow.

It wasn't to last.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

“Next time…”

“Next time…?”

“The next time we have intercourse, could we try it the other way around?”

John chuckled. He curled his outstretched arm around to tangle his hand in Sherlock’s hair. “Mr. Holmes, are you saying you would like to fu —?”

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off. “Very much.”

John smiled broadly. “I think that can be arranged.”

Sherlock made a satisfied noise and leaned in to kiss John’s cheek. John let his eyes droop. There was a long pause before, “John?”

John chuckled again. His life would never, ever be boring. “Yes, Sherlock?”

"I've been struggling with something and I would like your opinion."

"Now?"

"Yes. Why? Is this not an appropriate time?"

"Entirely depends what you want my opinion on. If you want to know what I think about the ligature marks on the murder victim from last week, then yes. If you want my opinion on whether we should sleep in your bed or mine, then no."

"Neither, though I believe what I want to discuss falls into the latter category. And why would I need an opinion on where we should sleep? Obviously, we'll sleep here. Well, I say sleep…”

John sighed. "What do you want to ask me?"

"We've been in a relationship now for several months, but I have not been able to find a suitable descriptor for you."

"Sorry, what?"

"What do you want me to call you?"

"Oh, well, I'm glad you asked. My name is John Hamish Watson. I'm a doctor, and a retired soldier, so you can call me Dr. Watson, or Captain Watson, or John — even Jack if you like — or just Watson." That earned him a pinch where Sherlock's hand lay attached to him.

"I'm quite serious. Boyfriend is ridiculous: we're not boys and we're much more than friends. But what, then? Lover? Partner?"

"Shag bucket?"

"John, this is important. I know how concerned you are with the way people perceive you — and me, for some inexplicable reason. I don't want to do anything to irritate or embarrass you. Well, anything _more_."

John turned and regarded the man he loved, feeling the happy little skip in his heartbeat when he looked into the crystal-blue eyes. "What do you want to call me?"

Sherlock was very quiet for several minutes, his eyes never leaving John's. "I've been giving it some thought."

"Clearly."

Sherlock ignored his teasing tone. "I have identified a solution that should satisfy your need for social conformity and my own…need…to make it obvious to others that you are not available."

"What are you getting at?"

Sherlock stroked his fingers lightly up from John's hip to skim up and over his ribs, coming to rest over his heart. He tapped his fingers gently against John's skin in unison with the heartbeat beneath. "I want to call you my husband."

John drew in a ragged breath. A ridiculous, bubbling something he would never be able to describe for anyone (should anyone ever ask about the moment in his life when he was most content) fluttered through John's chest, right beneath the gentle touch of his lover's hand. He removed his hand from behind his head and stroked over the fingers on his chest.

Sherlock's eyes widened at John's hesitation. "But if that is not something you want, then we —”

"Shhhh," John soothed, reaching in to hold Sherlock's chin. He kissed him gently. "Is this a proposal?"

"Yes."

John ran his thumb over the curve of Sherlock's lush bottom lip with a smile. "Ask me properly."

John could feel Sherlock's whole body relaxing. "I love you, John Watson. My good, kind, sexy, danger-loving doctor. My soldier. Will you marry me?"

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I believe I will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Stay the Night - James Blunt


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